


The Easiest Thing

by BabblingSquirrel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2018-12-15 10:23:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11804085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabblingSquirrel/pseuds/BabblingSquirrel
Summary: "You may find that some stagnate at times of peace and only grow in the face of adversity..."





	1. Chapter 1

The first time I lay my eyes on him since he was the innocent babe they died to protect, he comes stomping out the door of 4 Privet Drive in a rage so intense I can smell it from across the street. I follow him in the shadows of neatly trimmed bushes as he drags his school trunk down the pavement, wand clutched in a white-knuckled grip, and try to see  _him;_ to see, in this angry storm cloud of a teenage boy, the pink bundle of joy that once - it feels like a lifetime ago - made my heart swell with love so pure I thought it would burn right through my chest.

I notice he has James' hair. Many times, Ugly has tried to make me resent this boy for the sacrifices made in his name but something has always kept me from giving in to those thoughts even at my worst. Maybe that love I once felt wouldn't allow itself to be thus violated, maybe my self-preservation wouldn't let me destroy the one thing I still have to live for. Or maybe I am simply too sure it was all my fault. And yet, Ugly now doesn't hesitate to provide a running commentary in the back of my mind that can be summarised in an ominous:  _Just give me one good reason_.

He stops under a streetlamp, flips the lid of the trunk open and bends down to rummage through the mess inside. I notice how skinny he is, how he's swimming in his clothes and if I wasn't starving already, just looking at him would make me hungry. My sensitive ears can still pick up the furious bellows and frantic shrieks coming from the home he left behind, and Ugly goes:  _So he knows how to throw a temper tantrum and make a dramatic exit. Who wouldn't want to die for him?_  It doesn't achieve its goal as I don't find myself suddenly hating the boy, though I do hate myself for not having shut it up. More than anything, I want to love this kid, after all.

Abruptly, he straightens up, looking around, as if he's sensed my eyes on him, but then he returns his attention to searching through his things. Mere seconds tick by before he tenses up again and slowly turns to look my way. It's then that I see it - the battle-ready posture, the sharp gaze scanning the night for threats, the silent resolve to meet whatever comes head-on, to survive no matter what; he's a fighter and I can only hope it comes from inborn instinct rather than experience. He casts a  _Lumos_  and raises the wand over his head.

Green eyes bore into mine and in this moment of clarity, I know I will do anything for him. Something inside me clicks into place, I can almost feel the rest of my mind shift to accommodate the change, and my world suddenly revolves around this boy, as it should.

He trips, falls on his arse, and Ugly finally capitulates.

* * *

Months later, when he throws himself at me in a fit of rage, I find myself holding back so that I wouldn't hurt him. When he has me at wand-point, glaring hatefully, I tell myself that if I die to give him some peace of mind, some closure, it will be worth it. I am partially to blame, after all. If he were a Legilimens, he would hear me loud and clear:  _Take whatever you need_. He must read some of it in my eyes, because he lowers his wand and by the time Remus bursts into the room, he's studying my face in confusion. He listens to my explanation without interrupting, letting his bushy-haired friend ask all the questions and leaving the disbelieving and outraged exclamations in all the right places up to the redhead. Those intense green eyes never once look away and when he tells me not to kill the Rat, it doesn't even occur to me to argue.

Asking him to come live with me, I feel a bit like a love-sick puppy. When he agrees and I have to suppress the urge to transform and lick his face in joy, I think I might want to tone it down, just a little. Having failed not to overhear, his bushy-haired friend throws me a sympathetic look over Harry's shoulder and I'm not at all sure I want her to actually understand - I doubt that she does.

* * *

My lungs feel as if they have been filled with icy cold water, the freezing claws of despair grip my heart and the only message my brain manages to send through my lips before my legs give out from under me is a raspy: "No...please...no." I had nothing, they let me run, let me get a taste of what I could have, what I could lose and now, they are taking it away from me. I hate them. Slowly, they glide closer and closer and I've never seen so many of them together, moving as one.

And then Harry is there and relief floods my body like a warm tidal wave and I feel horrible for it, because this is the last place I should want him to be. Still, the stubbornness, the sheer will to live edged in Harry's features gives me more hope than I could ever muster on my own. He casts the Patronus Charm, trying, failing and trying over and over again. The girl makes a few halfhearted attempts, too, before collapsing. But Harry is a fighter and as long as he draws breath, he will never give up. I know that; the sky is blue, the grass is green and Harry will never stop fighting.

From where I'm lying in a pathetic, crumpled heap on the cold, cold ground, with the last vestiges of strength, I reach out to touch the boy's hand. Our eyes lock and for one timeless moment I trust him and he knows. "You can do it," I manage to croak out before the darkness swallows me whole.

I wake up to a splash of very real icy cold water right in the face. I sputter, cough and swear some, but sit up, in the end, and decide to retaliate later.

"Pettigrew's gone. You'll be kissed on sight if they find you. Here, take it and go," Harry says urgently, offering me the longer of the two wands he's holding.

I blink at him stupidly for precious seconds before my brain kicks in.

"Harry, the Trace... You are underage."

"Damn it," he curses and goes on without missing a beat. "Do you know a place? Somewhere you could get a wand at this hour? In Knockturn, maybe? They couldn't possibly track you if you're quick enough about it."

"I have no money on me," I hate to disappoint him again but find that I love to see his mind at work.

"Can you call things to you from far away?" his tone never changes; steady, if somewhat imperative.

"You can't Summon money. Goblin thing," I explain once I catch up with his reasoning.

"Can you Summon a broom?" he asks immediately. "Not mine, too suspicious," he adds. And this is me, taking comfort in the complete and utter unflappability of a thirteen-year-old boy. I'm ridiculous.

"Sure," I take the wand from him - it's not a perfect match, but I can work with it - and start Summoning the recent Nimbus models first, while Harry paces back and forth, muttering under his breath.

"Wand...wand...wand...Snape might still be unconscious... If he isn't and we Summon it, he'll go all  _sweet vengeance_  on us all over again...of age...of age...professors...Professor Lupin," Harry concludes triumphantly.

At this point, I'm already checking my new Comet 260 for Anti-Theft and Tracking Charms. Luckily, there are none. I try Summoning Remus' wand but nothing happens.

"Wizards sometimes ward their holsters against Summoning Charms. I wouldn't put it past Remus."

"Summon the holster?"

I do, with no apparent result.

"Here, could you Conjure or Transfigure something into a replica of the one you're holding?" he asks, handing me the second wand. "It doesn't have to work, just look like it," he adds when I open my mouth to protest.

This one likes me a bit more and with a quick flick and a soft murmur of  _Geminio_ I'm holding a passable copy of the longer wand - which Harry proceeds to snatch out of my hand and without preamble, snap in half.

"Once I get a new one, they might even stop monitoring the original, if we are lucky. Till then, you'll have at least something in case of emergency," he looks at me beseechingly and I know exactly what he wants to hear. "How long will the replica last?" he questions, taking back the shorter wand from me and grimacing, probably at the fit.

"I will save myself if I have to, by any means necessary," I assure him, touching his arm, and he beams up at me in relief, like a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. "If the Trace comes back to bite us, you can always pretend you knew nothing about this. I'll leave the country and get me my own wand as soon as I can. The broken one should last about a week or so," I say and suddenly, I have an armful of teenage boy.

He sags against me bonelessly, as if now, with everything and everyone taken care of and a proper plan in place, he can finely let go of his tight control of the situation, of himself, and relax.

"Right, I'll go lie down and play dead. You get out of here. See you in the summer, you know where I live," he mumbles into my shoulder, hugging me loosely around the waist - and I can feel that he's as skinny as he looks.

"I'm going to miss you," I whisper and know it's true even though it doesn't make much sense. Then, I press a kiss into his hair and we go each our separate way.

* * *

As soon as I am safely out of the reach of the castle's wards and on my way south, my thoughts wander back to Harry and I realise with a start that I never once thanked the boy. He gets me out of a sticky situation, saves my soul, most likely my life, too, sends me on my merry way with his own bloody wand in my pocket and I don't even say thank you? It all seemed so natural, so matter-of-course that I didn't feel any thanks were needed, or even appropriate at the time. Not that I usually bother myself much with what is or isn't appropriate. It was more about what Harry would have appreciated.

I grow progressively more sickened with myself the more I think about it. I let the kid walk all over me, and what's worse, I enjoyed it. I let a thirteen-year-old boy take care of me when it most certainly should have been the other way around. We are both equally culpable, though, come to think of it; I started it by guilt-tripping myself into the whole  _kill me if that's what you need_  attitude, and Harry finished it by giving me his wand. Throughout the whole mess of a night, it had been reciprocity at its finest and I didn't even notice.

Or had it? And then it hits me with the force of a speeding Hogwarts Express and I know I'm in trouble because it's not Ugly, this time, and I have no idea what it might be. I haven't heard this one in years. And since I only started naming them in Azkaban, it might be something I lost there completely. Like Pride.

* * *

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

The next time I come to see Harry, I am better. At least that's what Patrick tells me. On principle, I don't remember Patrick's last name, since the man himself once said I shouldn't 'waste my woefully limited number of brain-cells on useless information'. I don't give a damn what my therapist's name is - though, against my better judgement, I do sort of like the guy - because if it weren't for Harry, I wouldn't have touched mental healthcare with a ten foot pole. As it is, I realise that Harry is a growing boy and should an unbalanced Azkaban escapee spend any considerable amount of time with him, he might just tip the balance for the kid as well.

And then I witness what actually happens in the Dursley household and think that however touched in the head I might be, I couldn't possibly do any worse than these people.

It takes three days of watching, listening, hiding in the bushes and restraining my homicidal reactions to what I have seen and heard for Harry to finally leave the house. After what was probably an unsatisfying breakfast of quarter-a-grapefruit, he slinks out the front door - most likely out of habit rather than any real need for stealth - and heads down the street towards the nearest intersection. Just before turning the corner, he makes a subtle gesture with his left hand that can only be interpreted as an invitation for me to follow and I have to wonder whether he's known I've been here all along or if he made it just in case.

During our short journey, I stay a safe distance behind him and try to take in as much as I can. He's an inch or so taller than when we last saw each other and as painfully skiny as ever. His hands are buried deep in the pockets of baggy jeans that look large enough for someone at least twice his size and there's a defensive slouch to his shoulders, but all I can smell on him is anticipation, excitement, maybe a trace of relief. It's nice to know I'm welcome. I can't but wag my tail the rest of the way.

Harry stops in the middle of a grassy field, waiting for me to catch up. Once I do, he turns to me and says simply: "Hi." I bark at him in response and his smile grows wider. Without a word of warning he plops himself down on the ground and hugs me as best as one can hug a dog. I lick the shell of his ear and he yelps in surprise but doesn't let go for a time. After some fishing in his pockets, he hands me a bundled up piece of intimately familiar silvery cloth and nostalgia chips at my heart just a tiny bit. I take it between my teeth, careful not to drench the fabric in any more slobber than strictly necessary, and trot over to the tallest tuft of grass around to change.

"How did you know I was here?" I ask, sitting down across from him, careful to keep all my limbs under the cloak.

Squinting against the sun, arms casually propped on his knees, wind playing with his hair, he looks so relaxed it's contagious.

"You chased Dudley home all the way from the Polkiss' house last night." His face is unreadable and he doesn't once raise his eyes from the stem of grass he's shredding between long, nimble fingers.

"I might have," I admit cautiously, wary of the lecture I sense brewing on the horizon, but to my surprise Harry's lips spread into a grin way too perfectly guileless for it to be just that.

"That was brilliant! He actually wet his pants," he informs me, beaming like an angel. The kid doesn't do openly malicious, apparently. James' signature  _mischief managed_  expression suddenly comes to mind - that smug little smirk - and I can't stop myself thinking that I like the latest version of that face much better.

"Well, he deserved it for pushing you down the stairs. And eating your carrots at lunch. And calling you a freak _._  And generally being an arsehole," I say, now brazenly unapologetic.

He tries to search my eyes for who knows what, realises there's nothing to search and turns to pick another stem to dissect. "I did have to wash those pants, mind you," he adds but not as an afterthought. It's probably as clear a 'don't do it again' as I'm going to get from him.

I nod in understanding, then catch myself and say in my best innocent voice: "Sorry?"

"Sure you are," he laughs freely and the sound makes me sigh in relief because it means they haven't damaged him too badly. However, as he runs a hand through the mess of his hair a second later, the movement highlights just how bony his wrist is, and I'm forced to reassess. I go through everything I know about Harry and come to the conclusion that they have most likely done their very best to destroy him but he wouldn't let them. Inadvertently, they taught him how to fight. Without any right to do so, I feel proud of him.

"How've you been?" he asks, his eyes failing to seek out mine again, and I can almost smell the resulting frustration, even in human form.

"Alright, I guess. As well as can be expected," I answer honestly and his brow furrows. "I went to Amsterdam for some money, got the wand in Eindhoven, then-" I cut myself off when I notice Harry vigorously shaking his head.

"Call me paranoid, but if you can be invisible..." he gives the air about a foot to the right of my head a meaningful look.

"Yeah, call me stupid. Nice to meet you," I say with the appropriate amount of self-deprecation.

That earns me a snort of laughter and a proper handshake. Except Harry doesn't seem to have any intention of letting go of my disembodied hand. He shuffles closer until he can comfortably sit cross-legged with his prize in his lap, running calloused fingers over the lines in my palm. It's a strange gesture, though not unpleasant.

"Need to know you're real," he explains somewhat sheepishly and I gently squeeze the questing digits in response.

"Have you been to see Lupin?" he asks, the name barely loud enough to be a whisper, his tone tinged with worry.

"No, I have no idea where he lives these days," I reply.

"Good. It's not safe," he says, clearly relieved. Then he frowns: "Have you been to see anyone at all?"

"Patrick. But I suppose he doesn't really count. I guess not, there's no one worth the risk."

He squeezes my hand between both of his, eyes shining with gratitude and I desperately want to tell him not to be silly because that question was never even near the table, but refrain, in the end.

"Who's Patrick?" he asks softly.

"Guy who's been trying to make me fit to rejoin human society," I say.

"Oh. And how's that going for him?" Harry teases.

"Better than I expected. He's no pushover," I comment after a moment of mock deliberation.

Harry raises an amused eyebrow in my direction and gives my wrist a feather-light caress - a silent encouragement to elaborate.

"He's like Snivellus with a sense of humor. You can insult him and yell at him for no good reason without the tiniest speck of guilt on your conscience but somehow, he'll always end up having a funny enough last word for you not to really mind and come back for more next time," I do my best to keep simultaneously my statement truthful and my dignity intact.

"Hmm...He sounds very special," Harry says contemplatively as if he's trying to put the pieces together and see some bigger picture I suddenly don't care for very much at all.

I give in to the inexplicable urge to reassure and say: "Not really. Once I'm out of things to yell about, I won't miss him one bit."

"I'd still like to meet him," Harry gives my hand a long, searching look, as if it holds all the answers, and I get the feeling that I accidentally dodged his point by miles.

I clear my throat of hopefully all residue awkwardness and shrug: "Sure, you can come with me next week if you want."

"Thanks," he says, tracing the hollow between my thumb and forefinger. "You promised I could come live with you," he reminds me out of the blue.

"You want my firstborn and my soul, too?" my stupid brain decides to test his tolerance for severe cases of foot-in-mouth - at a most inopportune moment, I realise.

"Sure, why not," he deadpans masterfully and I have to laugh in relief at the spark of mischief in his eyes.

I have a speech prepared for this occasion. Patrick agreed it was the reasonable, mature thing to do under the circumstances - to let go. Yet, Patrick hasn't met Harry's relatives. Before, taking him away was the reprehensible, purely selfish option. Now, both decisions seem equally justifiable in my mind. And only one agrees with the rest of me.

"Have you ever been camping?"

* * *

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Struggling not to burst out laughing, I watch him run a hand through the watery slime on his cheek, sniff his fingers, wrinkle his nose and glare green death at me from between eyelids still heavy with sleep.

"You did not just slap me with a fish," he mumbles dangerously - a combination I never thought possible, but Harry pulls it off by sheer force of righteous annoyance.

"Yes, I did," I confirm, doing my best not to sound too gleeful.

I don't quite manage and that seals the deal for him. He's out of bed and tugging on his jeans in record time.

"Sirius Black, you are so dead," he hisses at me over his shoulder, zipping up. "See that poor trout over there? That's how dead you are," he threatens, throwing on a washed-out red T-shirt.

"I've always wanted to try it on someone and you were asleep and the fish was _there_ -" I babble, going for sheepish and failing miserably, since my measly acting skills are still busy keeping a straight face and controlling the urge to cackle madly.

"Well I'm glad you've fulfilled your life's ambition," he interrupts my heartfelt non-apology. "Because I'm going to kill you. Now."

He moves as though to tackle me and I fall for it like an amateur, turning to run. I barely make it out of the tent before a Full Body-Bind hits me squarely in the back and for once, I'm grateful for Harry's quick reflexes when he catches my body mid face-plant into the dirt and lowers me gently to the ground. He levitates me back inside and leaves me like that, utterly helpless, praying that ants don't decide to set up camp in my nose, and wondering whether I haven't finally bitten off more than I can chew.

It feels as if I've been lying here for ages, when at last, the Finite washes over me. However, before I can breathe a sigh of relief, something cold and slippery slides between my arse cheeks. For one blissful moment, my brain refuses to process what is happening until the absolute horror of my predicament hits home. The slimy thing is rubbing against my balls. There is a cold, slimy thing between my legs, rubbing against my balls.

And then it starts croaking in distress.

"Have you seriously just put a frog in my pants?" I ask incredulously. Thanking Merlin for small mercies - like the fact that some higher power kept me from shrieking like a girl - I try to slow my pulse down enough to meet human parameters.

"I have," announces Harry proudly.

Colour me impressed.

"Woohoo! You are the man!" I want to roll over and give him a high-five but decide against it since I don't fancy washing toad entrails out of my pubes this early in the morning.

"If you tell me that you've always wanted to find out how a frog would feel in your boxers, I'll do this world a favour and pull a Lockhart," he warns, hitting the kettle with a heating charm.

"Huh?" I say intelligently, most of my attention focused on extricating the unfortunate amphibian safely out of my trousers.

"You know, wipe your memory of all the crazy. I don't think there would be much left after that, though," he clarifies absentmindedly.

I pick myself up off the floor and stand in front of the entrance flap, frozen to the spot, struggling frog in hand, struck speechless by the strangely domestic scene in front of me: Harry, hair sticking in all directions, shirt on inside out, barefoot, making tea. There is a strange, constricting sensation in my chest and a strange giddiness everywhere else, and I want nothing more than to share this strange, wonderful feeling but have no idea how to let it out. I shake my head.

"I'm going for a run," I say and head out.

"Hey, you alright?" Harry asks worriedly, a gentle crease between his brows.

"Fine. Just restless," I reply but the crease is still there, so I add: "Not your fault," and it smooths out.

Even though instinct tells me there is something more I should do here, I ignore it and walk out into the morning sunlight. I release the frog on the river bank, transform and run away from all the things more complicated than putting one paw in front of the other.

I get no more than a minute of peace before the rest of the world catches up with me.

I know I'm pushing him away, creating distance where there doesn't need to be any. And I know it's futile and halfhearted at best since if I actually succeeded, it would be the last thing I'd ever do as a man with a future worth sticking around for. Still, I don't want Harry to see. It's not that I'm too proud to admit how much I rely on him, exactly. Nor do I wish to play at a father figure - somewhere along the way, I gave up on the idea completely. More than anything else, it's that I can't imagine what anyone, let alone my thirteen year old self would do with such information, such responsibility and so it would hardly be fair to expect Harry to know what to do with it. It makes me want to go lick my wounds somewhere no one who matters could find me and come back only once I feel ready. Because if Harry sees me this impotent and confused, he might never see me any other way, and then, without a reason to even try, I might forget how to _be_ any other way.

Although Patrick thinks I'm better after a month of daily sanity lessons, what he focused on improving was my perception of myself. Unfortunately, how well I understand my mind when alone doesn't seem to carry over to social interactions at all. It's as if I'd been deaf for a long time and now that I can finally hear again, my brain has to relearn to make sense of sound. I still get lost in all the emotions the Dementors wouldn't let me feel - the floodgates open and it's all I can do to keep my head above water long enough to catch the occasional breath. Out of my depth, I usually dog-paddle my way gracelessly through whatever situation, but I shudder to think of Harry realising how often I look to him for guidance and support. The dependance, the lack of control on my part should be terrifying, yet Harry makes me feel safe enough to let myself go with the flow - which _is_ terrifying. And sometimes, I suspect he knows perfectly well just how much I need him and that's exactly why he's here - to take care of me, to make sure I don't drown in my mess of a mind.

_"I might trust him with your life. Not your freedom and never your happiness." That earnest face, those green eyes bright with all the things I've missed over the years; the promise spoken without words._

It has been five days and the memory haunts me no less than the first night. Our first proper exchange of opinions and we couldn't have picked a better topic than whether to trust Albus Dumbledore. It was spectacularly eye-opening in many ways. Had someone told me that after a decade in Azkaban, I would find a thirteen year old I could honestly accuse of being cynical without having to call myself a hypocrite, I'd have laughed. Had I known that it would be James' son and I would struggle to view the boy as a child at that age, I would have probably made it my life's mission to find the strength to escape much sooner. At first, I had blamed the resemblance to his father but Harry thoroughly shattered that illusion in a single conversation; it was his mind only, painting him as too old in my eyes.

Snape discrediting their testimony and reporting his own version of the whole Hogwarts debacle directly to the Minister himself was the least surprising of Harry's revelations that day, the fact that the miserable snitch implicated Remus in aiding me practically a given. No, what really got my attention was Harry's rant about Albus' reaction. One did not tell a Potter that something couldn't be done, unless they wanted him to take it up as a personal challenge to prove them wrong. The Headmaster apparently knew this and cool as a cucumber, without committing himself to a course of action, tried to avoid an explosion by way of a well placed 'I'll see what I can do', which Harry didn't buy for a second. An offered candy and a pat on the back for doing the right thing just wouldn't cut it, and by the time they finished their tea, the old man had somehow promised to _at least_ make sure the Trace would be fully transferred to Harry's new wand and come July, send the Aurors on a well-organised wild goose chase somewhere abroad.

I sort of felt sorry for Albus at that point and suggested that we _at least_ ask him to put a location under the Fidelius for me, so that he could rest easy knowing I wouldn't accidentally sabotage his sabotage of the investigation. That earned me an earful on plausible deniability, Hermione's research into the Wizengamot, the ICW, Dumbledore's role in them and the pitiful excuse for a justice system we wizards have in place, along with a brief recount of Harry's altogether delightful experience with the magical government. Inconsistent, whimsical and unscrupulous were the words he used, I believe. Big words. I had to wonder then, whether 'Hermione's research' actually meant all three of them spending every waking hour of their last month at school looking for ways to get me out of trouble. I made the mistake of asking why, when Albus was aware of the situation and would 'see what he could do', we should still worry about the legal and political side of things.

_"If it comes down to it, he won't openly defy the Ministry for you. He didn't think Hagrid's freedom was worth fighting for, and he'd had no way of knowing the problem would sort itself out the way it did. I doubt he'd fight for yours. With your life on the line, maybe, though I wouldn't bet anything you value too much on it, if I were you. He has a history of being late for these parties."_

I didn't question the truth of that statement out loud, though I did point out that he might be judging the man too harshly. After all, there were few individuals so prominent that they had politically more to lose than Albus Dumbledore.

_"If he wants to keep me from acting on my own, I'll judge him as I'd judge myself."_

To let oneself be 'kept from acting' sounded to me like an awfully convenient way to wash one's hands of an issue, shuck all responsibility and be free to bitch about what was happening from the sidelines. I'd probably call anyone else on doing exactly that, but Harry was a minor, an orphan and a celebrity in need of protection. He couldn't afford to tell the only man powerful enough to keep the vultures at bay to go screw himself, and expect no repercussions. Besides, I wouldn't want him to, not on my behalf. So his point was somewhat valid, he did have a right to judge. However, that didn't mean we wouldn't get in touch with Albus at the first sign of trouble.

Just how far from washing his hands of me Harry was, I found out two days later when an exhausted Hedwig dropped _The Fidelius Charm: A Study_ and _Fidelius for Dummies_ in the middle of our box of pizza. That evening, while I was busy trying to distract him from his reading,  _Fidelius for Dummies_  got proclaimed useless in a matter of hours and Harry's marathon to absorb all six hundred and forty five pages worth of _A Study_ began. It was then, curled up against his side on the couch, falling asleep to repeated murmurs of long strings of Latin incantations and having his fingers scratch that spot behind my ear, that I realised why he was so angry and disappointed with the Headmaster. Harry's take on doing enough was impossible for Albus to match. He didn't understand that if the man were to dedicate all his power and influence to a cause every single time one appeared, he would be neither Headmaster of Hogwarts, nor Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and would therefore have little help to offer him. That night, I foolishly vowed to myself that I would show Harry he didn't have to work through life one problem at a time, because problems were few and far between. 

Now, I realise how naive that was, since his most recent problem has my name and my four legs and is currently making its way back to our campsite. He's sitting cross-legged in the grass a few feet away from the tent, munching on a piece of toast, book in his lap, wand out and poking a pebble on the ground. Momentarily forgetting about the proximity wards, I stop in the shadow of a birch tree to watch him for a while but he has other plans.

"I think I did it," he calls out enthusiastically. 

I trot over to him and when his eyes stay stubbornly on the pebble, I lick his ear in greeting. He rubs it clean with the hem of his T-shirt, then turns to me, smiles and says: "Sorry. Good run?"

"It was," I reply, sitting down next to him. "Let me guess. You found a magical stone that disappears whenever a Dementor is nearby and you want me to swallow it," I deadpan.

He blinks up at me owlishly three times, opens his mouth, closes it again, frowns and asks: "Wait, you can see it?"

"Yeah," I confirm, proud to have rendered him speechless for nearly ten whole seconds.

"Well, damn. There goes try thirty two," he picks up a pencil and scribbles a note in the margin of the book. "Do my ideas really make me sound like that much of a nutter?" 

"Definitely," I tell him honestly.

"Okay," he nods to himself and I have an ominous feeling that that nod was of the 'challenge accepted' kind. He closes the book around a stem of grass, picks himself up and offers: "You up for a swim? Dobby said lunch would be ready in half an hour."

"Sure," I agree and we head into the tent to grab some towels. 

We strip down to our boxers and barefoot, under the cover of the sparse forest, we make our way to the riverbank. Harry's always a few steps behind me and keeps muttering one word under his breath over and over again. That word sounds suspiciously like 'Dementor'. 

I'm already knee-deep in the river when Harry muses aloud: "Do you think that if you had your secret keeper kissed by a Dementor, you'd get yourself a Dementor secret keeper? You know, since the secret gets stashed in their soul."

I stare at him, slack-jawed for what is certainly more than ten seconds. 

"Alright, you win. Happy?" I say, shrugging in resignation.  

"Very," he gives me a bright smile and follows me into the water. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See chapter six for AN.

It's been three days and I still can't lay on my stomach in human form without getting phantom frog in my pants. I'm currently testing it out yet again on the couch while Harry's hopefully finishing up his Potions essay. He's been at it for the last two hours and I tried to match his intimidating attention span, I really did, reading his mail, but gave up halfway into an honest to Merlin eight-inch-long (twice measured) paragraph on Hermione's trip to some museum or other. My ability to concentrate is one of the things supposed to 'gradually increase with practice' according to Patrick, so I'm not too worried. Still, even once I get full use of my brain back, I don't plan to ever torture it with letters from that girl.

Having performed a rather spectacular piece of weirdness yesterday night, Harry has finally taken a break from failing to Fidelius the hell out of everything. After hours of questions and, to the best of my knowledge, baseless speculations about the nature of souls, ghosts and Peeves of all things, he concluded that he should be able to bind the secret into plasma, and thus simplify the process considerably. He managed to make a candle disappear for the whole of ten seconds, before we both got nearly blinded by an explosion of ultra violet light - at which point I grabbed him and Apparated us into a cave close to Hogsmead. I didn't bother voicing my concerns for life on Earth, since Harry looked terrified enough without my doomsday commentary.

The argument took up almost an hour but without a better idea, Harry had to concede that sending Dobby to scout out whether Wales was still humanly habitable, would most likely be our best bet. With the dubious assurance of 'fine, glowy but fine' still fresh in my mind, I Apparated us back to our campsite. Glowy, indeed; the tent shone in the darkness like a giant Chinese lantern. Armed with a pair of hastily conjured sunglasses each, we braved the inside.

"Let's put out the candle," Harry suggested.

Easier said than done, since there was no candle in sight. So I encased the general area around the source of the light in a protective bubble and levitated it out of the tent, through the sparse forest all the way to the river, a vaguely amused Harry trailing behind me. He didn't comment, though, only insisted on fishing out the damned candle after it got doused.

"I was thinking more along the lines of dumping a bucket of water on it but that worked too, I guess. At least you won't be going to jail for burning down any forests," the cheeky bugger finally told me on the way back.

After I most satisfyingly made his supper taste like dirty socks in retaliation - under Dobby's watchful, easily offended eye, he dutifully ate every last bite of it - we moved some ten miles upstream just to be safe. As safe as an Azkaban escapee and Harry Potter can be in a tent in the middle of nowhere, that is.

As if following that ominous thought, a ball of flames whooshes into being right above Harry's homework, startling him badly enough to nearly fall out of his chair.

"Fawkes!" the boy exclaims, frantically patting the pieces of parchment in front of him, at first, to make sure the fire wouldn't consume his essay, then pinning them down to keep his work from being scattered all over the room. Because sharp gusts of air are suddenly fanning his face, his raven black hair is moving in sync with the beat of those large, ruby-feathered wings, back and forth, and as he looks up at the magnificent bird, there's a gleam in those green, green eyes, wild and otherworldly by association. A shiver runs its leisurely way down my spine, agonisingly slow, and I take a much deeper breath than intended.

The phoenix lands on his arm with expert precision, digging long talons into sun-kissed skin without drawing the tiniest drop of blood.

"Is he mad at me?" Harry asks and the spell is broken. I heave a sigh of relief. For once, I know exactly what I felt. And for just this once, I wish I didn't.

Fawkes cocks his head to the side in an unmistakably 'well, duh' sort of way, and Harry interprets out loud: "Royally pissed, then."

After a pause, he nods resignedly: "Alright, let's hear it, " and one-handed, he makes a surprisingly quick work of the string tying a tightly rolled up slip of parchment to the bird's leg. As soon as he's free of the letter, Fawkes flies over to perch on the back of Harry's chair.

While I laboriously get my arse off the couch, the boy reads through the short missive. He snorts and passes it to me without a word, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

Dear Harry,

It has come to my attention that you left the safety of number four, Privet Drive. While I must once again commend your commitment to newfound family, it behoves you not to forget your mother's sister. The wards around her home have so far been maintained only by your presence under her roof during the summer holidays, and should you fail to return there for at least three more weeks this year, I am afraid these protections would be in serious danger of collapsing.

If I may suggest a course of action, this coming Friday between two and five A.M., casting of Muggle-Repelling Charms or any magic inside your aunt's house would be perfectly undetectable. Should you require assistance in this endeavour, I would be happy to help you.

Kindly send your answer with Fawkes.

Your humble servant,

Albus Dumbledore

P.S.: Sirius Black has recently made an appearance in Cairo, Egypt.

"He has a way with words that just makes you feel like a spoiled brat throwing a tantrum, doesn't he?" Harry comments bitterly, somehow knowing exactly when I've finished reading.

"Hmm, if I were you, I'm sure it would," I tease and when he merely grunts in response, I take a good look at him. Even though there aren't many, I see the signs - the slightly furrowed brows, the unfocused gaze; for some reason, he's hurting. Apparently I'm not the only one capable of sensing his inner turmoil, since the phoenix starts trilling a comforting tune.

"I know, Fawkes," he says, reaching up to caress the bird's blood red chest plumage, "I know he wishes for it, too."

"Who wishes for what?" I ask as gently as I can manage, sitting down on the hardwood floor in front of his chair.

"Dumbledore. That we didn't have to play these games," he replies, continuing to absently pet the phoenix.

"What games?" I question carefully, trying to catch his eye to gauge his reaction. Still, he stares stubbornly up at the bird.

"You know...games. He knows he does it, I know he does it, he knows that I know that he does it, but he keeps doing it anyway," comes the oddly inarticulate answer.

"He keeps doing what?" I try one more time, taking his hand and dragging it into my lap like he did that first day in Surrey, so that he's forced to follow me down onto the floor.

He sighs, finally meets my eyes and speaks, while I draw small circles on his palm with my thumb: "I guess I thought we were past guilt trips and playing on my saving people thing and pretending that he cares what happens to the not so innocent bystanders with no major part in his plans. He could have simply asked."

I think back on the letter, realise that he's not exaggerating and blurt out: "Well, maybe this is really important-"

He laughs and I cringe at the hollow sound.

"Too important for him not to manipulate me, you mean? He could have still asked. Maybe it's revenge for not warning him before I left the Dursleys."

"That's not his style. He wouldn't do something like this out of spite," I say with conviction - Albus is many things, but vengeful is, thankfully, not one of them - and cringe again at the fake smile that follows my statement.

"Maybe he can't help himself. You know, force of habit?" I try hopefully.

He quirks a real smile, this time, and says: "Yeah, maybe."

In this moment, I need to hold him very badly and have to fight the urge to flee in response to the impulse. I am so screwed up it's not even funny.

"Gimme," I demand once I've pulled myself together, and Harry, evidently reading my mind, passes the message and a quill.

I scrawl lazily across the back of the nasty thing in large capital letters:

IT'S A DATE, OLD MAN.

YOUR NOBLE MASTER

And before either of us can change our minds, Fawkes swoops down, grabs the parchment in his talons and flames away.

Harry's laughing so hard there are tears in his eyes and I can't imagine a better reward for my efforts. Except maybe for a hug.

* * *

"Master's Doggy missed again," the squeaky voice declares once more and I stop to catch my breath and grit my teeth in frustration. I could hit a bloody bug at this distance - once upon a time thirteen years ago. As the sounds of two pairs of rapid footfalls get quieter, I debate giving up and waiting this one out with a glass of Firewhisky for company. But soon enough, there comes the not at all surprising combination of: "Stupify!" and "Master Harry Potter sir missed, too!" There's a thud, a rustle of leaves, and then a brief silence. "Dobby didn't," the house-elf announces triumphantly.

"Good catch, Dobby. What would we do without you," Harry compliments as they make their way to me through the thick shrubbery.

"Starve, Master Harry Potter, sir," the elf answers cheerfully, holding the struggling rabbit firmly to his tiny chest. After a week under our corrupting tutelage, it's nearly impossible to tell when he's taking the mickey.

"Probably," Harry concedes solemnly. There are leaves and little twigs stuck in his hair and it looks ridiculous.

"Why do we do this again?" I grumble.

"Because it's fun and you said you needed to practice?" Harry raises an eyebrow at me, then frowns and stops walking to let Dobby get ahead of us. The elf takes the hint and pops away.

"Alright, spill. What's up with you?" he orders.

"Not sure," I reply honestly after a moment's thought, scratching my jaw.

"If this is about spending a few weeks back at Privet Drive, I'm really sorry. It won't be that bad, I promise. We'll just have to sleep there, nothing more. It's safe to use magic outside the house so we can Apparate anywhere anytime. And you don't have to come with me, if you don't want to. I mean, yeah, it'd be boring as hell but it's not like I haven't done this before," he babbles and I want to tell him that I'd go with him no matter what but have no idea how.

After a while, he loses his patience, grabs my hand, picks a direction seemingly at random, and drags me unceremoniously through the forest.

"You still haven't taught me how to skip stones," he states resolutely.

"I don't know how to skip stones," I say, baffled.

"Whatever gets you out of this funk," he mumbles under his breath. "You've been weird all day, ever since Fawkes came to visit, so just spit it out. What's bothering you?"

"I told you already, I don't know," I shrug helplessly.

That gives him pause, he lets go of my hand, slows down to walk beside me and starts picking the leaves out of his hair.

"Okay, I'm going to guess and if anything rings true, you'll tell me, yeah?" he offers.

Although I'm far from eager to bring Harry along into emotionally overwhelmed Confusionland, I promised myself I wouldn't push him away. So I nod, resigned to my fate of eternal embarrassment.

"You're going to see Patrick tomorrow after the longest break yet. There's something you really don't want to talk about, and you think he'll make you," he tries.

Well, that sure hasn't even crossed my mind. I shake my head, then remember that moment this morning, how Harry looked at Fawkes and how it made me feel and all those times I ran away to keep myself from doing something stupid, and admit: "Now that you mention it..."

There's merely a beat of silence before he goes on: "You're a very tactile person and you think I'm not, so you hold yourself back and it's driving you nuts."

I stop and stare at him in astonishment. "H-how?" I manage to stutter out.

"You get really twitchy, go for a run, or transform and do your thing as a dog. Hermione only gets twitchy," he explains, shrugging. "Look, just do what you need to do from now on. I'll let you know if anything makes me uncomfortable," he says matter-of-factly, as if it's nothing unusual, as if he deals with crazy stuff like this every day and I can't believe it might actually be this easy.

I reach out and tentatively draw him into my arms for the first time since that horrible night at Hogwarts and it's such a relief my knees feel like jelly. His hair smells of earth and sweat and dead leaves and mint shampoo and I love him so very, very much.

We stand there for the longest and shortest time until Harry asks: "Better?"

I sigh, release him and agree: "Better."

And I am. There was a tension I notice only now, when it's finally left me. And all those untold things I didn't know how to communicate are gone, too. Well, not gone, just not so pressing anymore, no longer 'driving me nuts' as Harry put it. Come to think of it, I did use to touch my friends a lot at school and in Auror training and in the Order and...everywhere. And not only friends, people in general. I was, in fact, very tactile, once.

"Wow," I nicely sum up my epiphany.

"If a hug's blown your mind like that, I'm not sure if we should do any more touching. This could get really awkward for you, you know," Harry says innocently and by the time his words properly register, he's already running.

"Come here, you midget," I yell after him and he laughs.

There's only so much professional treatment I'm going to get from this one - and I wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

Plop.

"It's in the elbow," I share my freshly expert opinion with the utter failure at stone skipping that is Harry.

Plipity ploop.

"You see?"

Harry picks up another relatively flat rock and tries again.

Plop.

He's hopeless.

"You're hopeless," I inform him.

Plop.

"I'd say you're a bad teacher but then I'd have to invent new words to define Snape and that'd take far more effort than he's worth," he says drily.

"Good one J-"

There's dead silence while I swear at myself in my head. It's a knee-jerk response: James insults Snivellus, I express my appreciation. Well, fuck me.

As if by some unspoken rule, we don't talk about Harry's parents. He probably doesn't want to remind me - though he has to be aware that I am inevitably reminded every time I look at him - unless I give some kind of sign that they are a safe topic. I do feel guilty for not bringing them up, since Harry must be hungry for stories, for any connection. Still, I can't let myself become just a link to them. I know it's selfish, but I want Harry to spend time with me for me and not for my late friends. So right about now, I feel like the biggest asshole in the world.

"Could we please forget I said that?" I all but beg.

Harry swallows hard, then nods: "I'll try."

I want to hold him, so I do. He buries his face in my shoulder while I run my fingers through thick, messy hair that is all James and give myself this one last moment to say goodbye.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper and Harry shudders as if he can sense that I'm speaking to a ghost.

By the time I let go, I'm sure of two things: Harry won't insult Snape in front of me again and I will never ever call him James.

* * *

TBC

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: See chapter six for AN.

_The water is everywhere._

_My eyes are burning, my mouth tastes like iron and salt._

_I can't see. There is a darkness around me that has nothing to do with the absence of light. It's sticky and foul as it creeps into my thoughts and I know it's here to stay - the antithesis of hope, of sense, of life._

_One with the sea, however formless, I'm moving through the water, the vaguest of vague ideas keeping me afloat; to escape the darkness._

_And there is no escaping the darkness. It's in the water and I'm drowning, choking on my formless body._

_I breathe in._

I wake up to the sound of chirping birds and an alien feeling of safety, noticing the change immediately. My mind feels raw, like skin scrubbed pink, but clearer than I can remember. It takes me only a moment to find a plausible cause; as I try to move my tail, I realise that for the first time in over a decade, I actually slept as a human. That would explain the dream.

There's an unfamiliar weight on the right side of my chest and when I raise my head, opening one eye to investigate, I get a faceful of messy black hair. My grin lasts through my recollection of yesterday night's reading-turned-lazing exercise, only to falter at the memory of Harry's guessing game, and it takes all my willpower to convince myself that Sirius Black is shameless and a healthy dose of humiliation has never killed anybody. Come to think of it though, while we did solve an important problem there, we did not, in fact, address the issue that had been bothering me since that morning. And what seemed like an absolute mystery yesterday, is now painfully obvious.

"I might trust him with your life. Not your freedom and never your happiness."

As adamant as I've been about my faith in Albus when confronted with Harry's stubborn scepticism, his arguments didn't fail to leave a considerable dent in my previously unquestioned blind loyalty. Yes, the one time I kept the man out of the loop, I ended up in Azkaban and James wound up dead. Yes, at that point, I was far from his first priority and Albus had no reason to dispute my incarceration other than the lack of a trial - which, considering that I was an auror during wartime, and thus applicable for court-martial, he most likely never even noticed. And yes, as a fighter under his command, having seen countless seemingly hopeless situations salvaged by his faultless judgement and lightning-quick reactions, I owe him my life many times over. However, war can bring out the best or the worst in a man and, unlike Harry, I haven't spoken to him in over a decade. Thirteen years of dealing with the likes of Malfoy through subtle political manoeuvring rather than prompt, decisive action must have changed Albus, for the better or for the worse.

"If it comes down to it, he won't openly defy the Ministry for you."

And yesterday, this man, whom I'm not supposed to trust, worded an order like a mock request, and Harry didn't get angry, didn't even try to negotiate. He just folded as if he didn't have a rebellious bone in his body - when I know for a fact that's hardly the case. And ever since yesterday morning these slippery vines of ugly, unjustifiable betrayal have been sneaking around, tightening their hold on my heart, quite unnoticed. How can I expect him to fight for me when he doesn't even fight for himself?

"Picking my battles," the object of my thoughts mumbles sleepily. Have I spoken out loud? "Stop thinking. Makes my head hurt," he complains, trying to burrow said head into my armpit and having failed, proceeds to slam it against my ribs with a vehemence that makes me oomph.

"Ouch, you're hard," he whines, rubbing his temple. "What time is it?"

To keep my mind from taking a trip into the gutter more than anything, I focus on locating my wand. I snap off a quick Tempus and swear colourfully.

"Get up! We've six minutes," I announce and he grumbles but makes to stand. I grab him by the waist and press him back to my chest, kissing the temple that attempted to crack my ribs because I can. "Good morning kiddo," I say.

"Morning Sirius," he answers and I hear the smile in his voice. He pats my arm, disentangles himself, slides off the couch and, barefoot, pads into the bathroom.

"Do you know how to make clothes look like you haven't slept in them?" he shouts over the sound of running water.

"Lenis, half a circle from top centre, bottom right diagonal flick," I shout back, tying my shoelaces.

The water stops and I listen as he tries the charm out. He keeps at it even when I hear him brushing his teeth. Needless to say I have a bad feeling about this and get ready to Aguamenti or Apparate out at a moment's notice.

"Cwap!"

Here we go.

"Anything on fire?" I ask, not quite able to hide my excitement.

"Nah, juft shafed yow toofbwush," he informs me.

I laugh and go to inspect the damage, only for a completely bristle-free toothbrush to bump against my forehead, as Harry helpfully levitates it to meet me halfway. I pluck the thing out of the air and spend the next minute making a piece of plastic grow bristles. Against my better judgement, I allow Harry to Lenis my clothes, while I finish my morning dental hygiene. It takes four tries for him to get the back of my shirt but he manages, in the end.

I start working on our glamours and having already decided yesterday that holding stories of his parents hostage won't do me any favours in Harry's books, I offer: "The first time James tried that charm in the common room, he set fire to Lily's homework. It was in fifth year, I think."

"What did she do to him?" he asks, trying to be nonchalant about it, though there's an eager glint in his eyes and I feel horrible for keeping him waiting all this time - and for such a stupid reason, too.

"Made him look like a right ass - gave him the ears and all," I chuckle feebly at the memory.

With a huge grin on his face, he takes my hand and says simply: "Thank you. Let's go?"

I nod and through the strange sense of unease rising in my chest, concentrate on transporting all our body parts safely to Bristol.

We appear in a side alleyway and have to take a moment to adjust to the sudden heat. If it's already this hot at nine, we should probably spend the rest of the day on the beach - Harry will love it. As we head for the bright yellow building around the corner, he's looking around with child-like awe, for once, taking in the view - one can see all the way down to the Avon from up here. He only lets go of my hand once we sit down in the spacious, square, rather futuristically furnished waiting room. There's a lot of glass and steel; memorable design at the expense of comfort.

"If Dumbledore's office weren't a hundred times worse, that thing would annoy the hell out of me," Harry comments and the child is gone. Provided that there's any innocence left to salvage, I promise myself to curb my language around him in the future.

He's pointing at a set of about a dozen colourful balls, cubes and pyramids rotating around each other, emanating faint whirring sounds. I wonder at his seeming familiarity with the Headmaster's office; I was there three times during my school days and none of those scolding sessions were long enough for all the weird stuff to stop being overwhelmingly cool and actually get on my nerves. How close are Harry and Albus really?

Before I can voice the loaded question, the white padded door of Patrick's torture chamber opens and the man says only: "Nine o'clock, please come in," careful with names even though apart from us, the waiting room is empty. I award the Revenclaw twenty points in my head - he usually ends up in the negative by the end of the hour, so no need to be mingy.

As soon as the door closes behind us, Patrick and I both start casting, dropping glamours and taking our habitual anti-spying precautions. There is a large window framed by sand-coloured curtains filling the better part of one wall, with a view of the river below and Harry is immediately drawn in that direction. With a twinge of apprehension, I notice that he has his danger face on - that determined, I-have-the-situation-under-control-and-it-had-better-stay-that-way-or-else expression - and not for the first time, I ask myself what he could possibly hope to achieve here today.

I open my mouth to make the introductions but Harry squares his shoulders and beats me to it.

"Healer Marlow, it's a pleasure to finally meet you," he nods at the man from across the room, clasping his hands behind his back in an obvious indication that no handshake will be forthcoming. The stance strikes me as familiar yet I can't put my finger on where I've seen it before.

"Mr Potter, I presume," Patrick nods back, smoothing down his light grey linen robes and walking over to fold his lanky body into an ochre swivel chair behind his desk. I can tell he's curious, very much so, but trying to be subtle about it. "Please, take a seat," he offers graciously, indicating the three chocolate brown armchairs in the room.

I pick the one nearest Harry and flop down into it, stretching out my legs and crossing them at the ankles in front of me - to keep him from pacing all over the place, in case there are any impassioned speeches ahead.

"I'll stand, thank you. I won't keep you for long," the kid declines courteously. I wisely advise myself to call him a kid in my head more often, as a reminder, because this level of Merlin-knows-what in a thirteen year old is just plain uncanny. "I merely have a few questions for you, if you wouldn't mind," he continues, standing calmly by the window, the picture of unflappable composure.

If he were curious before, it's nothing compared to the gleam - one that rivals Hedwig's just-spotted-a-juicy-bug gleam - that enters Patrick's eyes at that pronouncement.

"Please, go on," he says simply, promising nothing.

"Would you say that you are an honest man, Healer Marlow?" Harry asks, tone perfectly benign, like a Nundu sheathing its claws and just breathing innocently.

Patrick raises an eyebrow but answers: "I would say so, yes. What about you, Mr Potter?" Well, turnabout is fair play.

"Not quite a man yet, I'm afraid, but honest to a fault, I'm told," he returns, not missing a beat.

"And what would you say?" Patrick doesn't let him off the hook that easily - hell would probably freeze over if he did.

"I used to be rather upfront with the truth as I saw it. Now, I have some fairly dangerous secrets to keep and no magically binding contracts to keep them for me. You tell me how honest I can afford to be," Harry shoots back with a grin, apparently finding something about that statement amusing. His words make me physically flinch with the sudden influx of guilt - the movement at the edge of his vision reminds the kid of my presence and he has the gall to actually give me an apologetic look.

"Oh, shut up," I tell his eyes and the silent apology turns into a glare. I let out a sigh of relief; that's much better.

Patrick watches the byplay with a barely controlled hungry expression that tells me he is dying to take notes. If this guy has an Animagus form, I'd bet anything that it's a hawk. With the way his dark orbs zero in on the newest perceived enlightening clue or anomaly, the way his honey brown hair stays glued to his scalp at all times, the way he perches on the edge of his seat, folds his bony hands on the desk in front of him and cocks his head to one side in a mockery of attentiveness, it couldn't possibly be anything else. I deduct five points for sticking his long beak of a nose where it doesn't belong - that is anywhere between myself and my godson.

Harry takes advantage of the Healer's distraction and continues in his line of questioning as if he never went off script in the first place: "Would you say that you have a well-developed conscience?"

It occurs to me that he most likely has this interaction very carefully planned out, for whatever mysterious reason, and my unexpected input might not have helped his aloof personae all that much. Oh well.

"You ask the strangest questions, Mr Potter," Patrick observes offhandedly.

"On the contrary. So far I've asked the questions that I'm sure we'd all like to know the answers to whenever we are forced to put our trust in another human being," Harry says matter-of-factly, steadily returning the Healer's searching gaze with an expectant one of his own.

I briefly wonder whether I'm supposed to be the judge of who blinks first. I drum my fingers on the armrests of my chair to break the tense silence.

"Yes," Patrick allows, in the end.

"Do you feel strongly about injustice?" Harry continues, walking over, leaning against the armrest and stilling my fingers with his hand.

"When faced with a glaring example of it like in this case? Of course I do," comes the somewhat more forceful reply and I can tell that Patrick is growing exasperated with the situation. He's probably been subjected to all sorts of things in this room over his fifteen years of mind healing practice, but getting interrogated by a teen-aged hero of the wizarding community? That has to be a first. I squeeze Harry's hand as a gesture of encouragement to keep going because he is obviously succeeding in pissing Patrick off. He squeezes back, who knows why.

"Would you be willing to act as a character witness for the defence at Sirius' trial? It would also be helpful, if you could, in your professional capacity, testify to the level of danger he poses to society and maybe compare his experience to one of a typical guilty ex-convict recovering from their time in Azkaban. Provided, of course, that there are any reliable sources to make such a comparison against and that your testimony would actually help our case," Harry finally reveals his point and I dearly hope my poker face isn't too shabby because inside, I'm reeling from the shock. 'Sirius' trial'? Just like that? What about the kiss-on-sight order? Patrick isn't doing much better as his eyes are wide with disbelief and flicking between Harry's face, mine and our joined hands, as if we are to blame for this insanity - which we most certainly are.

"I don't expect an answer right away," Harry informs the stunned man. He pulls a tiny white cube out of his pocket, throws it on Patrick's desk and hits it with an Engorgio, revealing a stack of documents. "Should you choose to help us, you will be compensated for any time you spend working on the case. Only after you sign and send the paperwork to the address on this envelope, naturally. If you have any questions or want to make any adjustments to the terms, you may also use the same contact. Exclusively via muggle post, please," he explains, pointing out the relevant papers in the pile.

Silence falls over the room again as Patrick sifts through the documents and Harry moves back to the window. With a growing lump in my throat, I watch this incredible young man drink in the sight of the beautiful day outside and I'm glad for the distance between us because I desperately want to show him how grateful I am. Regardless of the outcome, I know I will never thank him enough - for believing in my future and actually fighting for it. Unlike me. All of a sudden, I feel quite ashamed of my own idleness. This is probably just a tiny part of whatever plan Harry and his friends put together and I can only imagine how much time and effort it must have taken three clueless teenagers to gain even a basic understanding of the legal processes behind the justice system. And here I am, a former Auror, sitting on my hands.

As if feeling my pressing need for a reason to end my internal monologue on how much I don't deserve him, Harry makes his way behind my back and once safely outside my field of vision, ruffles my hair. Ruffles. My. Hair. Oh, revenge will be sweet.

* * *

I find him basking in the sun, sprawled out on the front steps outside.

"So, do you think he'll bite?" he asks lightly, squinting up at me, holding out a bacon sandwich.

I gratefully accept the food since it's nearly eleven and I'm starving.

"He started signing as soon as you left," I smirk at him after wolfing down the first half.

"Good," he nods to himself and closes his eyes.

"You were amazing," I say on impulse.

"Not really. I was all over the place," he grimaces self-deprecatingly. "There wasn't enough time to get a proper feel for the guy, so I tried covering all the angles. I have no idea which one actually worked. Oh, that reminds me, you should know that one of those papers was an exclusive permission to claim your case in the name of science or some such. It was Hermione's idea. Apparently, there aren't many innocent test subjects willing to endure long term Dementor exposure just for the heck of it these days and the research could be groundbreaking, maybe even create some worthwhile arguments against Azkaban itself. He might not act on it, but if he does, he'll no doubt have some extra annoying questions for you. And you shouldn't cheat on him with other mind healers," Harry grins at me cheekily.

"Wonderful," I express my appreciation in the driest tone I can muster. "I think the parting shot did the trick," I share my best guess.

"You mean: 'I have an exceptionally good memory, Healer Marlow, and you are about to make an exceptionally memorable first impression. Choose wisely how you wish to be remembered'?" Harry's exaggerated imitation of his own stern voice somehow, hilariously, comes out closer to McGonagal's Scottish burr and makes us laugh ourselves silly. After a while, he turns pensive and thinks out loud: "Well, I am Harry Potter and he did seem like one of those weirdos who get off on power-plays from afar but have no idea what to do with themselves when it's their turn. They usually respond well to gentle, vague threats from..." catching sight of my bewildered expression, he trails off and looks sorry to have run his mouth.

"Who are you and what have you done with James' son?" I say playfully once I've pulled myself together, though there's still an underlying sense of profound incomprehension - as if I've built a house without foundations and now it's just hanging in the air, held intact by irony alone. Who are you? is the question I really want to ask, quite seriously.

The flinch is nearly imperceptible but still very much there and I feel like the biggest asshole in the world yet again.

He stands up, brushes off his jean-clad bum, sticks his hands in his pockets and wanders off down the pavement at a leisurely pace. I sigh, finish the last bite of toast and catch up with him in a few long strides.

"This... insecurity... goes both ways. And we just can't help ourselves, can we?" he comments offhandedly, not letting his eyes stray anywhere near my direction.

"What insecurity?" I ask with some trepidation.

"You know, you expecting me to seek your company only as a means to get closer to my parents. It's mutual," he explains, tone excruciatingly factual and before I can properly process what's been said, I'm drawing him into my arms.

He stiffens, clutches at my shirt, then melts against me and while I'm pretty sure that at this point in time, we don't understand each other at all, I know for a fact that neither of us will give up, and that means something. It means everything, actually.

"You're crazy, Sirius, in the best way," he says. It sounds like a confession and I feel equal parts awkward, touched and thoroughly reassured.

* * *

_The water is everywhere._

_My eyes are burning, my mouth tastes like iron and salt._

_I can't see._

_I can't breathe._

I'm back on the beach, dripping wet and panting. I see Harry making his way out of the water towards me from about a hundred feet away, and realise that I must have Apparated. I drop down into the sand with a groan, resigning myself to the cruel reality of the sea being the most terrifying thing in the world. I lay on my back and close my eyes.

"Fucking Azkaban," I say once I can feel him sitting next to me.

"Fucking Azkaban," Harry agrees and my eyes pop open at the f-word coming out of his mouth.

I'm really great at this not-corrupting-my-thirteen-year-old-godson business. I turn my head to look up at him and even though I'm prepared for it, the fact that his face isn't Harry's face sends a shiver of something akin to fear through my whole body. His hands are still Harry's hands, so I take one and hold it close to my chest.

"Will you tell me about it?" he asks and at that moment, I couldn't deny him anything if I tried.

So I talk about the cold, and parts of my brain, those in charge of all things pleasant and warm and happy, slowly dying, and shadows that aren't really there until I make them, and loneliness to the point of forgetting I'm human and not one of them, and screams, and hard stone, and smelling so bad I lose sense of smell altogether, and ravenous hunger, and rain like tiny glass shards peppering my skin - the bliss of feeling. I tell him about slipping through the bars and running with no strength left in my body but still running, and freezing cold water, drinking and tasting salt and being sick, remembering what will is and willing myself to swim, and willing myself not to drown for so long that I forget what solid ground feels like, forget if I'm a man or a dog or water.

He silently curls against my side and I know I will never be able to connect with anybody else, because this is so exhausting. Liberating, but exhausting.

* * *

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

I really should have seen this one coming. If not since Harry began speaking like he'd swallowed a dictionary, then at least after the episode with Patrick.  _"I know he wishes for it, too...that we didn't have to play these games,"_  comes to mind as well and I have no idea how I could have been so dim. I mean, of course these two love each other to bits.

With the initial period of intense ribbing and thinly vailed accusations - which had me burrowing deeper into my designated bush than was probably wise, in an attempt to get myself safely outside their firing range - over and done with, Harry starts briefing him on the outcome of mission Make Patrick Sign. It's the longest I've been without sleep since actively on the run and in the humid, warm night air, I have to fight the urge to just listen to his voice and doze off.

Having suffered through a few long minutes of confusion, I realize that the layers of meaning behind this conversation have layers, and that trying to interpret all the subtle nuances might actually drive me insane.

"...the kiss?"

"Taken care of."

"Bones came through for us?"

"Although Amelia certainly has substantial reservations about the veracity of your claims, she took it upon herself to single-handedly convince the Wizengamot. As of yesterday, it appears paramount that we discover the methods used in the escape and determine what preventive measures need to be taken."

It's good to know that potentially life-saving information matters more to some people than the speedy creation of a soulless husk. If they keep this up, they might be in danger of restoring my faith in humanity.

"I'll have to send Susan a thank you note."

"Please refrain." There's a story there, no doubt.

"Veritaserum?"

"Inevitable."

Harry swears under his breath.

"And we still have no guarantees after the dog is out of the bag?"

"There is nothing we haven't already discussed," here, Albus' voice turns exceptionally firm and I conclude that had to be one hell of a discussion.

"Any news from Shacklebolt?"

"Kingsley believes he hasn't left the country but the trail stays cold."

There's a brief silence. I use the time out to try to get a visual and shave off half the bush in the process of extricating myself from its clutches.

"Still projecting, I see," Albus comments, not unkindly.

At that, Harry copies Albus' stance perfectly: joining his hands behind his back. A corner of the Headmaster's lips tilts upwards. What most likely started out as subtle mockery on Harry's part is now an inside joke.

"I'm sorry, sir," the kid announces and I get the feeling that it's something he's said many times before in this context.

"Not to worry, dear boy. Control isn't found, it is learned," the twinkle in the man's eyes is visible even from my vantage point, so I can imagine how infuriating it must be from up close. "How are our friend's defences?"

"Down."

"Hmm. You have seen your share, I take it?"

Harry nods meaningfully and after a moment of deliberation adds: "And I thought I was a mess."

Albus raises an eyebrow and very nearly smiles, though he lets out only a speculative: "Indeed?"

It's at this point that I realize whom they are talking about. I'm a mess, alright, but what defences? Then it clicks and if the extremely weird dynamics of Harry's - dare I say it - friendship with Albus were a shock to the system, then this notion well and truly stuns me. Harry...a Legilimens?

The answer comes in the form of a barrage of recollections vying for my attention: _"You okay?" "Picking my battles..." "What's up with you?" "Hey, you alright?" "You chased Dudley home all the way from the Polkiss house last night."_

And most telling of all:  _"You're a very tactile person and you think I'm not..."_  right after he all but ordered my subconscious to spit out whatever I most dreaded discussing with Patrick. Looking back at that particular conversation, I can't wrap my head around why my Auror-trained alarm bells weren't going off 'mind-art-based interrogation' like crazy. Because it was Harry, that's why. And I might be slightly rusty, perhaps. With my ability to concentrate shot to hell and the relatively harmless company I've been keeping, Occlumensy practice has never made it into my organised chaos of priorities - which is no wonder, considering the sheer number of Harrys and not-getting-caughts floating around.

"...heard of a glowing secret keeper?"

"Careful Harry, the temptation of shortcuts has led astray many good wizards."

"What makes you think it was a shortcut?"

"Surprising as it may be, not all of my knowledge comes from personal experience-"

"And not, say, an experiment?"

"If you will excuse my candour, you are not one to get side-tracked easily, my boy."

"You would know."

"Indeed, I would. What are..."

Seeing Harry like this, freakishly calm and focused entirely on not losing - since winning is probably not an option - this verbal spar makes me search him for the angry, unguarded stormcloud of a teenage boy I first met a year ago. I catch glimpses here and there, but it's a struggle to hold on to the idea when faced with such a blatant contradiction.

Has my presence in his life caused this transformation? A long-forgotten memory flashes through my mind: Regulus, obviously in his element, exchanging political innuendoes with young Rabastan Lestrange over the dinner table. Suddenly, the world feels horribly skewed, like facing a boggart while under the Confundus. Then Harry sends a soft, warm smile in my direction, and I'm flying back up the rabbit hole. I can always ask him what's going on, and he can always explain.

I once thought I knew a boy, who could explain away the most ridiculous situations with even more ridiculous stories, all the while keeping a straight face. Sometimes, he would look so small and pathetic that even McGonagall would take pity on him and just pretend to buy the bullshit. I taste bile in the back of my throat. I did not just go there.

"...who better to guard your secret than a natural human repellent?"

There's a pregnant pause.

"Do try to master the mind arts, dear boy, before some unfortunate fool wanders into the bizarre place between your ears and never returns."

"But would it work?" demands Harry, ignoring the somewhat complimentary insult entirely.

"You may ask me again in September," and that would be the Headmaster's way of saying he has absolutely no clue. "Please restrain yourself from conducting any experiments based on this theory until then. I would hate for you to fail at inter-species communication and have our friend stay invisible and intangible to the rest of the world for eternity."

Harry's eyes widen in horrified realisation. Apparently, he didn't think that far. Well, Albus might have delivered this one a touch gentler - or he might have had a good reason for the slap-down.

"He could have simply asked," another memory resurfaces. The idea of Albus wording a letter in any particular way for the sole purpose of punishing Harry appeared so ludicrous at the time. After what I've witnessed here tonight, it seems alarmingly plausible. Privet Drive tilts sideways again, though it feels more like I've opened my eyes and am, at last, staring reality up its phlegmy nostrils. Because this is not the world I left behind all those years ago and I finally, finally see that.

The world has changed, as have I. I'm not Mother's disappointment or Prongs' and Moony's Padfoot. Nor am I Mad-Eye's prodigious pet project. And I won't go searching for any of those selves, either. I'm Harry's Sirius and that's just fine for now, though in the long run, it's not enough. Once I'm free - I wouldn't dare insult the two on the case with an if - I'd be a fool to expect a warm welcome with open arms, acceptance and understanding. Since Harry has yet to find a way to duplicate himself, there is always going to be at most one person unwaveringly on my side out there, trying to make things as easy for me as humanly possible. I'm going to have to fight for my place under the sun and by then, I'd better know damn well where I want that place to be. With no small amount of relief, I realize that I sort of look forward to it.

"...the family been informed? Sir?" okay, that reluctantly added honorific sounded a tad offensive.

"I am planning on having young William spread the news," if Albus noticed, he's doing a masterful job of not letting it bother him.

"Let's give them at least a week to adjust. I don't want any...adverse reactions," ooh, bossy much?

"You may find that some stagnate at times of peace and only grow in the face of adversity," the look following that statement is so significant it could be in a dictionary instead of the definition and Albus Dumbledore would undoubtedly make everyone understand.

"Huh. You might be on to something. But let's still give them at least a week to adjust. Sir," maybe this is Harry's way of retaliating for having been so mercilessly put in his place. Or he could be simply pushing his limits, or the old man's, or he's just being a brat.

"If you insist. Should they expect you on the seventh, then?" the Headmaster's tone is as amicable as ever.

Come to think of it, Albus might indeed be on to something. Mother gave birth to me for the sole purpose of making me miserable, James was nothing if not fierce competition, and dealing with Mad-Eye on a daily basis definitely kept me on my toes. Maybe that's why I've been feeling so damn bland these past few weeks; because I've had nothing to define myself against. Maybe it's time for the kid gloves to come off, on both sides. Harry should stop coddling me and I should stop bowing down to his every whim. Maybe it's time to find out who I am - in the face of adversity.

It feels like a breath of fresh air, like a touch of hope that I won't be stuck in this bleak place forever. There is going to be an explosion and I've always quite enjoyed those. Except for the last one - but I could sense that coming for miles. The calm before this storm seems to be brimming with the potential of good, exciting things to come.

If nothing else, tonight has given me perspective. Harry might be the centre of my universe but he's not the centre of the universe. I might love him unconditionally, but he can be a right git - and Albus is a saint for putting up with him. He might come off that way at times, but he isn't actually all-knowing or all-powerful. He's just a boy, just Harry, and that's fine for now.

Later, I would remember the fifteenth of July 1994 as the first post-Azkaban day my brain decided to meet an emotionally challenging situation with some answers, as opposed to blank confusion. Not necessarily the right answers. Still, it's the thought that counts.

* * *

As far as the muggle inhabitants of number four, Privet Drive could tell, ever since Friday morning, they were suddenly one bedroom and one bathroom short, yet for some reason didn't find it at all strange or unusual. In the coming weeks, a patch of uncut grass would appear on the front lawn and whenever they would attempt to level it, they would end up cutting their toenails, instead - or struggling to reach their toenails, in Vernon's case. What the charms wouldn't let them see was the landing of a bright blue slide, leading down from an equally invisible second story window. A slide it had to be, Albus insisted. He even taught Harry a spell that would coat our hands in some kind of sticky goo, so that we could climb up.

However, dear Albus failed to foresee - or perhaps foresaw and thought funny not to mention - that once the house is monitored again, we would wind up inside, with our fingers covered in sticky goo, and no magic to help us get rid of it. And thus, Friday evening found us in the tiny, pink, upstairs bathroom, sleep-deprived, cranky and scrubbing our hands with Mr Muscle - the only cleaning agent we managed to locate, which has had even the slightest effect on the stuff.

"Tomorrow, we are going to buy rope," I decide.

"No. I am going to buy rope. You are going to stay and tie it to the bars when I get back," Harry corrects me.

"Right," I grit my teeth. Why does he have to be always right.

"What's up?" he has the gall to ask.

"As if you don't already know," I snap back.

"Hey, it doesn't work like that," he defends rather indignantly. "I don't go out of my way to invade your privacy. It just happens," and his voice is back to calm and measured.

"Well that's alright, then, if you don't go out of your way," I'm getting really annoyed now.

"Look, I wanted to tell you but it was easier-"

"Easier to what? To pretend that you understood, to make me dependant on you, to have me trail behind you like a lost puppy?" I'm nearly shouting by the end.

"Yeah, that's exactly how I want you. Lost, helpless, ignorant and depressed. Those are the highlights of my days, you know? When you're down. That's why I'm here with you, scrubbing stupid goo off my fingers. Because I want you to be miserable," he says evenly, his tone maddeningly clinical.

I can't believe this cold, unfeeling thing in front of me is actually Harry Potter. For some reason, my mind supplies a recollection of crimson red irises with slit pupils. Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments and he flinches.

"Let's grab some gloves and get back outside. You've got laces on your shoes, righ-"

"Shut the fuck up!" he's already at the door but that stops him and he slowly, slowly turns around.

And the dam breaks. He stalks towards me and jabs me in the chest with the one finger he'd managed to clean.

"Alright, I'll shut up," he gets right in my face and there's that fire in his eyes. I smell danger and the rush of adrenalin is pure bliss. "But first I'll tell you what your problem is. You. Don't. Trust. Me," he emphasises every word with a poke to my chest.

"One mistake and I'm stuck with a killer headache, listening to every single mind in my vicinity. So bloody what? You've never once screwed up in your life? I won't suddenly turn into Voldemort, or your brother, or the Rat. Ask me a fucking question or stay the hell away where I can't hear your bloody insane speculations," he turns on his heal and marches out of the room, shaking his head. After a beat or two, I follow.

"You know, if you want to stop trailing behind me like a lost puppy, now would be the time to break the habit," he remarks acidly.

"You got it wrong. I do trust you. I trust you too much," I say, more desperation creeping into my voice than I'd want to admit.

He huffs sceptically and crosses his arms against his chest.

"Then what's your problem?"

"You, making all my decisions for me. You, treating me like a child, like someone you need to take care of, like I'm your responsibility."

He lets out a mirthless chuckle.

"For a man who supposedly doesn't enjoy having his thoughts pried into, you sure expect me to do it often," he observes, his eyebrows raised in something akin to amusement, as if he can't believe he's having this conversation.

"What?" I bark out, my hackles rising again.

"Two weeks, Sirius. That's how long you've had to ask me. I told you there was a plan and you were comfortable knowing only that and nothing else for two whole weeks. We could have discussed it, you could have told me to shove it and done it your way. Hell, you could have argued with Dumbledore yourself,"

"That wasn't an argument," I protest lamely and it's a testament to how much his little speech hit home that this is the only objection I can come up with.

He deflates a bit and says tiredly: "Yes it was. It's always an argument. We've just had enough practice to sound civil."

"I'm not even talking about that. I'm okay with your plan-"

"Oh, well that's a relief," he interrupts, only a little snidely.

"I just don't appreciate being told what to do," as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret letting them slip out.

"Look, if you don't want to be treated like a child, not that I've been consciously doing anything of the sort, then by all means, stand on your own two feet. I know that you possess the capacity to take care of yourself but honestly, you haven't exactly been using it. Sure, sleeping curled up in a bush and eating whatever meat crosses your path that day is all well and good, until you want to feel like a human being again. At least I thought that was what you wanted. So somebody had to step up and you weren't really making the effort. And that's fine -"

I cut in before the wounds to my ego become fatal: "Alright, alright, I get it. Next time I try to pick a fight I should choose grounds where I have a leg to stand on."

"You do that. Now, will you please help me get my fingers off this jumper?"

It's only then that I notice he hasn't uncrossed his arms for quite some time. If I take a tiny bit more pleasure in laughing at him than usual, he doesn't comment on it.

Later, I would remember the morning on the sixteenth of July 1994 as the first post-Azkaban day I successfully rubbed one off. I would make a point of not thinking about why.

* * *

In retrospect, spending five whole days wallowing in self-pity and hitting the whale's booze is a prime example of my consistently crappy decision making of late - if there even was a conscious decision on my part behind voluntarily waving whatever self-respect I still had at that point goodbye. By the end of my Sulking Period, as Harry calls it, I could fully appreciate how dangerous it is for me to deliberately give up on myself for any considerable length of time. I wasn't back to rock bottom by any means (struggling to get up in the morning, carefully weighing the importance of cleaning up that particular day for hours on end, or forcing myself to ingest anything at all), still, mere five days cost me any progress I had made on the social and emotional awareness front. I'd like to think that I wouldn't have allowed this to happen if I had no one to fall back on - though that might be my recently rediscovered 'When in Doubt, Blame Harry, When Not in Doubt, Blame Harry, Too' philosophy talking (Ugly just got a hell of a lot more sophisticated on me). However, the fact remains that after everything, Harry is still here for me to fall back on and blame.

The revelations Albus' visit brought were a, maybe not intentional but definitely well-aimed, kick to the stones. And then, in the face of adversity, I found out who I am: someone who can't even keep up with a thirteen-year-old's logic any more. Someone who gets turned on by...anyways. And instead of stepping up and doing something about it, I decided to waste five whole days out of the measly fifty-eight I would get this year.

In those five days, I came to realize how skilfully Harry had made himself a constant in my life. Only once he stopped trying could I see how perfectly measured his presence and the amount of attention he'd given me had been; tailored precisely to my needs. Only then did I understand how artfully it had to be delivered for me to accept and actually enjoy human companionship. After more than twelve years of forced solitude, it had initially been a struggle to spend an hour a day with Patrick. And then Harry had come along and had simply made it work twenty-four seven - probably not so simply, I now realize.

On day five, Harry thanked me and when asked what for, proceeded to inform me that my considerably unpleasant thoughts had already helped him learn enough control, and therefore, it was time for me to quit sulking. I told him to fuck off. He left without another word. When in the morning, I couldn't find him anywhere, I went to Bristol, dread slowly spreading through the pit of my stomach. Needless to say, Patrick wasn't very happy with me. After the longest torture session yet, I found Harry sitting on the steps outside in the rain, soaked to the bone but smiling. He gave me a wet hug and thanked me. I didn't ask what for.

We spent the rest of the day goofing around on the deserted beach, no muggle-repelling charms needed, Apparating to the highest spots we could find and having settled on top of one of the Clifton Bridge towers, stuffing ourselves with Dobby's somewhat healthy version of New York style pizza until we could hardly move. In the evening, when all we could see of the city were thousands of lights, some flickering, some moving, others steady, Harry finally told me what really happened in June. No misleading omissions, no equivocations, the truth, without prompting.

_"That night, after I barely kept myself from blowing up on Fudge, I went and blew up on Dumbledore. I completely lost it and exploded this silver puffing cube thingy - you've been to his office, right? He just sat through it all, not batting an eye. He was silent for a long time after I finished ranting at him - I guess it took him a while to decide how to deal with me. In the end, he told me that if that display was supposed to persuade him to help you, I should try a different approach next time._

_So I did. We did some research and the following day, I went and made an absolute idiot of myself. I lectured him on how no government should be able to issue a death warrant based on a trial that didn't happen. And how to point that out to them shouldn't be 'politically detrimental' to anyone, let alone the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. And how much better this would be handled in the muggle world. He told me that ideals were all well and good but if you intended to do more than speak about them, they weren't enough. And by the way, good luck to me, claiming 'a rat did it', persuading any muggle court of your innocence. So we did some more research, came up with a really lousy plan, now that I look back at it, and I went to try and bring Dumbledore on board. He showed me just how lousy it was. So we tried again. And again. And again. There might have been some heavy Time-Turner use involved..._

_Sometime during the second week, I went on a bit of a power trip and told him I would deal with it from the top and offer Fudge long-term public support of his administration in exchange for an official enquiry into your case. I would let him stick my name on everything related to the investigation so that from the outside, it would look like they were merely appeasing the Boy-Who-Lived and his need for closure. I showed Dumbledore the drafts of the agreement we'd prepared and told him that if he didn't like it, he should help me put together a better plan, or I would go through with this one, no matter how stupid he thought it was._

_I guess at that point, he deemed me a student worth teaching and invited me for tea every day at seven. If anything, they were lessons on how to graciously lose an argument. He forbade me from publicly associating myself with Fudge in any way and ordered me to save my political capital for less fickle allies and more important issues..."_

And thus had begun Harry's thorough, if rushed education in politics. Albus was, apparently, a firm believer in as much real-life experience as possible, and had shown Harry Pensieve memories of just about every significant trial and Wizengamot session in his lifetime. I nearly choked on my own saliva when Harry pronounced Lucius Malfoy brilliant. That statement held the title of most surprising for a long while - until I asked about the Time-Turner.

The mind arts hadn't properly come into play until just before the very last week of school as that had been when Hermione had gotten around to researching what 'Legilimens account' or 'third-hand testimony' meant and why it was inadmissible in court, only to find out that anyone with the right set of skills could pluck my location out of their minds at any time without their notice. In order to train themselves in Occlumency, they had needed at least one trusted Legilimens, and he wouldn't be Harry if he let one of his friends take the risk of screwing up and going insane now, would he?

And screwed up he had. It hadn't been until, after a weekend in agony, he'd ventured into Potions class and had been unceremoniously dragged to the Headmaster's office by an irate Snape accusing him of trying to cheat on his exam by picking answers out of his classmates' minds, that he'd received any professional help. Really, with so many people around him at the time, it was a miracle that Harry wasn't a drooling vegetable.

In the few days and then some time turned till the end of the school year, Albus had managed to teach him how to focus his perception exclusively on one person and assigned isolating his own mind completely as summer homework. Supposedly, it should aid him in moving his Occlumency along as well. Considering the way Harry spoke about their interactions, I realized at that point that 'friendship' couldn't possibly be the word to accurately describe anything with this amount of baggage weighing it down - Harry hilariously called it a 'somewhat complicated working relationship'.

Looking back at everything with this new information, I couldn't but laugh at Patrick's worry over my fixation on Harry. I mean,  _the last month of the kid's life_. Spoke for itself. Then I decided I didn't give a damn that Sirius Black was supposed to be shameless, and apologised, pulled him into my arms and just repeated how sorry I was until he clapped a hand over my mouth. If I didn't have an extremely good reason to have trust issues, I would have to hate myself for ever doubting him.

As I lie sprawled on his bed, my head in his lap, revelling in the bliss of having gentle fingers card through my hair, while he pores over  _A Study_  once again, I idly wonder where all this scary work ethic and near feverish drive came from. When I'd been a part of his daily routine, I hadn't really noticed, but in the last few days, seeing it from the outside, my brain started tentatively drawing the parallel. Now, the dots connect and clear as day, there she is; Lilly, stuck at the cottage in Godric's Hollow, having us smuggle in obscure books and scrolls, making and discarding one borderline unhinged plan for the 'final defense' after another. A lion backed into a corner, defiant to its last breath. Then I recall Harry's appreciation of Malfoy of all people and am forced to rethink the lion part of the analogy. Unbidden, a question flits through my mind: whether he will still be able to love himself by the end of this.

"Even if I'm not, then at least I know that you will," comes the rather absent-minded response.

The statement rings very true and I miss the times when I had no reason to wonder. When forming attachments was second nature and all of them were unquestionably healthy by default. These days, I'm not so sure anymore.

Later, I would remember the twenty first of July 1994 as the last day I told Ugly to leave me the fuck alone.

* * *

 

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

"Wow."

The sky is so wonderfully blue. And the sun so warm. And the grass so very, very green. And the air just so...well, the smoke rising from the charred trees on the edge of the clearing only adds to the beauty of this lovely piece of this glorious world.

As my pulse gradually slows down and the elation fails to recede, I dare hope that this has not been a one-off experience. Somehow, I knew I'd welcome danger like an old friend. Yes, I am, and always have been an adrenaline junkie. And a sucker for the forbidden. And beating Harry at something, anything, will probably never get old. Not that out-duelling a thirteen year old is much of an accomplishment. Still, it's Harry; Voldemort-vanquishing, basilisk-slaying, Albus-challenging Harry.

Damn, I'm good.

* * *

 "Wow."

His eyes are huge, full of surprise and childish joy, not to mention incredibly green. Adorable, my mind supplies unhelpfully - it's a good thing that he's too overwhelmed to make any sense of my thoughts; otherwise, I'd be so dead.

"What, you've never seen a birthday cake?" as soon as I hear myself say the words, I wish there was a permanent cure for my foot-in-mouth disease.

However, Harry's expression never falters as he clarifies: "I've never seen a red, glowing birthday cake with Snitches on top."

"Well, now you have," I say, half amused and half exhilarated by his reaction.

"Now I have," he agrees, still stunned.

I can't hold it in any more and snicker. That snaps him out of his cake-induced shock and earns me a punch in the arm.

"Oi, that supposed to be a thank you?"

"Yes. Thank you," he beams up at me, the picture of innocence. "Can we do Clifton Bridge again? Please?" he pleads, tugging at the hem of my shirt like the child I know he hasn't been for quite a while, not really.

"You mean the well-overdue-talk part?" I tease.

"Nope. I mean the eat-as-much-as-you-can part," he grins.

"Sure, kiddo," I press him to my side and kiss the top of his head.

At the end of the day, the cake is gone, the beeline between the Lake District and the Isle of Man measured, six fishermen Obliviated, and Harry is, for once, a carefree kid, exhausted after too much sugar and excitement.

Damn, I'm good.

* * *

"Wow."

"Wow what?" I ask rather apprehensively - there's that glint in his eyes.

"You're actually good at this," he marvels at the creature of sheer and utter brilliance that is me.

"Of course I am," I retort in mock indignation.

"No, I mean seriously. You should, you know, make a living out of this," he insists.

"This...as in teaching?" the apprehension comes back with a vengeance and a touch of genuine horror.

"Yeah, teaching Defence," he says, nodding to himself as if in confirmation that this is a great idea.

"Huh," I reply, my brain momentarily blanking out in fright.

"Can't you see yourself at the High Table, smiling down at all the hormonal teenagers, next to your esteemed colleagues? Sprout, Flitwick, Dumbledore, McGonagall. Snape..." he trails off with a stupid grin on his face.

I blanch at the mental image.

"You're evil," I accuse.

He laughs and says: "And you're too easy."

Damn, he's good. 

* * *

"Wow."

"Hn?" Harry grunts, getting to his feet, probably still dizzy after his first ever Portkey trip.

"It hasn't changed at all," I observe fondly. I stoop down to pick up a particularly fat Gnome and throw it over the hedge. "Not one bit."

"Oh, look, he calculated this one either really well or slightly off," Harry comments with some amusement, pointing at the green pond only two feet away.

I don't even think about it; it's pure instinct. My Banishing Charm hits him squarely in the chest and a moment later, Harry's up to his neck in duckweed.

There's neither a sound of surprise, nor a pause for consideration - I trained him better than that. " _Accio!_ "

The next thing I know, I'm being dragged into the water, feet first; brat summoned my shoes. Once my legs are fully submerged, he flings a flailing toad at my face.

"Harry, dear? Is that you?" comes a female voice from the direction of the house.

"Transform, quick!" Harry urges.

I'm confused. "What? Why? I thought Bill was supposed to-"

"Hurry! You don't know Dumbledore like I do. He makes me work for everything and I didn't-"

But it's already too late. A short, plump, red-haired woman marches into view - that's Molly Weasley, alright. As soon as her gaze lands on me, her eyes narrow into slits. Suddenly, her wand is in her hand and Harry's climbing hastily out of the pond to stand between the two of us.

"Good morning, Mrs Weasley" he greets her cordially, clasping his hands behind his back and slowly moving his wand out of his sleeve. Sometimes, it still catches me off guard - when cornered or stressed, Harry often falls back on Albus' mannerisms, even though he couldn't have spent more than sixty hours in the man's company. 

"Harry, that...that is-" Molly begins, her posture tense.

"Mrs Weasley," Harry interrupts her in a gentle, soothing voice that, for some reason, doesn't sit well with me, "when did you last see your son?" he finishes, and the realization hits me like a ton of bricks.

I was taught to use this exact tone when dealing with a murder victim's bereaved family and friends. Any member of the Order has been on the receiving end of the routine far too many times. Harry's a right piece of work, trying this against a mother of seven, though it will most likely stop the spells from flying. Since I've failed to come up with a better distraction, I'll keep my mouth shut - for now, anyway. I make myself useful and under the cover of the green gooey stuff floating around me, subtly cast a nonverbal Notice-Me-Not Charm.

"Which one? What's happened?" she asks anxiously, crossing her arms over her stomach in a protective gesture, and thus safely hindering any potential fighting prospects. Disaster averted.

"Bill. Professor Dumbledore tasked him with explaining the situation to you. Do you have a convenient way of contacting him?" Harry questions, somehow conveying an underlying sense of urgency as well as quiet, unassuming, yet firm authority. 

"We last spoke before he left for Egypt and he promised he'd come on the twenty fourth for the Quidditch World Cup," she reports on reflex, then catches herself, probably waking up to the reality of whom she's actually speaking to, and promptly takes charge of the situation: "Let's go check the clock, dear."

She probably no longer fears the worst, but still seems worried as she bustles off, having apparently forgotten about me completely. Likewise ignoring my presence, Harry follows, visibly - to my expert eye at least - steeling himself for the upcoming exercise in selling an unbelievable story to a sceptical adult no doubt well-trained in poking holes in children's wild tales.

"Oh, Harry, you're all wet..." as soon as she starts fussing over him, I deem it safe enough for me to drag my frog muck marinated body up the muddy edge of the pond and clean myself up. Even after three drying charms, my left trainer feels slightly soggy. Wanker got me good - but I got him first. I grin.

I plop down into the uncut grass nearly reaching my knees and take in my surroundings; the flock of fat brown chickens free to roam the garden, the makeshift Quidditch pitch, the overgrown hedges, the haphazard layout of the house, the green-brown hills on the horizon, the weak rays of the morning sun tickling my face. It's peaceful, a different, better kind of peaceful than muggles trying to out-conform each other in the middle of London suburbia. I pull the dark blue sleeves of my shirt over the palms of my hands, fold them behind my head and lie down. 

Following the sole white fluffy cloud on its leisurely journey across the otherwise clear sky with my eyes, I marvel at how content I feel, even though my dose of duelling for the day has yet to come. I remember how reluctant I was when Harry first came to me with the idea, and am, once again, grateful for the kid's unparalleled stubbornness and persistence. For a while there, I could absolutely empathise with Albus' plight at the end of the school year. When Harry gets something into his head, he doesn't take no for an answer. Instead, he keeps asking the same question in different ways, relentlessly, every single day, without fail, until he's satisfied with the response. I have, in fact, no clue how Albus had managed to hold out for over a week before giving in; I could hardly bear it for four days - though I do suppose I'm much more susceptible to the puppy-dog-eye treatment than Albus will ever imagine.

Nearly twenty hours of training, about a million safety precautions and one glamour later, I finally agreed to go all out, and it was the best thing in the world since Harry. Winning brought back memories of what it was like to excel at something, teaching him made me feel useful, for once, the vicious circle of emotional overdrive and shutdown got broken by the amazing simplicity of complete focus, and by the end of the first week of beating the crap out of him on a daily basis, I thought I just might be worth all the hard work the kid had put into saving my sorry arse.

At that point, my concentration was up to sticking with me through the entirety of Harry's mail and to my great annoyance, I discovered that the brat and his friends had evidently been discussing how best to go about helping me deal with my 'issues'. The ensuing exchange of opinions escalated into a full-blown fight pretty quickly. This one turned out a bit better than my last pitiful attempt - I got an actual apology out of him. Apparently, the first few days at Privet Drive had truly scared him and he'd been at a loss for what to do with me. In retaliation, I wrote a letter of my own, asking Hermione for advice on how to deal with Harry's 'issues'. To say that I got more than I'd bargained for would be an understatement.

Reading about what family meant to him, to what lengths he would go just for the mere idea of it, finally realizing that I'm far from alone in depending, in trusting blindly, in being somewhat lost and desperate, turned my world upside down and forced my eyes open wider than I'd thought they could go. Even now, I still wonder how much of the Harry I've known has been spontaneous, and how much a set of behaviours painstakingly calculated for my benefit - in the end, I guess it's a moot point, since Harry's mind had to come up with both. Nevertheless, the meaning of the word unconditional probably escapes him - he might understand it in my thoughts but most likely as a purely foreign concept. And thus, I've added one more line to the growing list of truths about life I've promised myself I would one day show him: he's Harry, therefore I'd love him no matter what, personification of all I need or not.

I must have dozed off, seeing as I find myself having to open my eyes when he drops down next to me like a sack of potatoes.

"That bad?" I ask, squinting into the now slightly stronger sun, since Harry's picked the worst possible angle.

"Not really. Just meddling old...people," he sighs and I snort at the hastily swallowed insult.

"What did he do?" I inquire carefully.

"You know, the usual. Dropped a few cryptic hints: 'trust him as you would me' and 'withhold judgement' and 'he shall come with a strange companion'. Eugh, that last one sounded like Trelawney, didn't it?" he scrunches up his nose and it's all I can do not to laugh at him.

"I wouldn't know. So you told her everything? No Nymphadora Tonks stuck in my form today?" I question lightly.

"Yeah, we can save that one for later," he says with a chuckle, picks up a stem of grass and starts mutilating it between his fingers. The gesture sends me back in time for a moment, to our first meeting this summer; he was so innocent then, in my eyes at least. And now he's just...just Harry.

That reminds me.

"You realize it was unnecessary, right? She would have snapped out of it and let you explain eventually," I comment mildly.

"I couldn't be sure what she would do; she wasn't sure, herself. I saw a chance, so..." he shrugs. Actually. Shrugs. Gah.

"The fact that you see a chance doesn't justify taking it." Huh, where did that come from?

"Point," he concedes, to my amazement. I try not to let show on my face how proud of the both of us that simple acknowledgement has made me.

"Once you've learnt some proper magic, you'll see chances all over the place. You'll have to draw the line somewhere." Yes, Sirius Black can do wise, too - bet you didn't see that coming!

"Alright, that wasn't well done, I get it," he says, throwing the grass away, finally on the defensive.

Damn, I'm good.

* * *

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

I walk down the stairs, shaking water out of my ear with my pinkie finger. I'm beat. After the hot shower, huge dinner, long run and all around the day I've had, who wouldn't be? _Hi, lovely family you've got here, don't mind me, I'll just be putting you lot in danger for the next few weeks. By the way, good to see you again, Molly. You look lovely, even with those fifty extra pounds._  I heard somewhere that when one doesn't have anything nice to say, they should stay silent - how such a generally useless thing has remained stuck in my head of all places for all these years is a mystery. However, this piece of wisdom sure came in handy today; it applies tenfold if you're trying to convince everyone that you are not, in fact, a murdering traitor. Bloody exhausting, keeping my mouth shut.

As I turn the corner, I nearly ram into the fresh out of school stuck-up Ministry stooge - Percy? He couldn't possibly give me a wider berth. Bloody redheads everywhere. I feel like curling up against Harry's side on the couch and letting his warmth and his fingers and the sound of his breathing Evanesco the rest of the world for me while he reads.

Harry's on the couch, alright, but he isn't reading. Ron has apparently been trouncing him at chess for some time - judging by his sullen expression - with the girl-Weasley who had Tommy-boy mucking around with her head, Gi-something, for audience, and the twins playing Exploading Snap on the other end of the long, maroon, well-worn seat. Bloody redheads everywhere. Ron merely gives me a nod of greeting over Harry's shoulder before returning to the game, while the girl's suspicious eyes follow my every move. They are a strange, liquid colour, like hot chocolate.

Still towelling off my hair, I make my way across the living room. The tight ball of tension suddenly settling itself in the pit of my stomach turns my previously purposeful strides somewhat hesitant. The moment feels wrong and alien and naked - and not in a good way. I want Padfoot. I need Padfoot. I transform.

_Coward._

A pitiful whine escapes my throat as I jump onto the couch and bury my snout under Harry's leg.

"I know," he says quietly and scratches that spot behind my ear.

* * *

When after three hours of staring at the ceiling, I'm still no closer to falling asleep, I give up on the vague sense of propriety holding me back and make my way to Harry's room. Up the stairs, across the landing, make sure the door doesn't creak, shut it silently, turn around, and... It's only now, staring at the sleeping form of his friend that I realize exactly how absurd this is. Ron snores loudly and Harry shifts in his bed. 

"Hey," I whisper, feeling like an absolute idiot.

Harry cracks one eye open - it's impressively green in the dark, too - and smiles sleepily.

"Hey," he replies, peeling back the covers in invitation.

I don't have to be told twice. Or even once. 

* * *

The sun on my face is annoying as all hell, so, since I finally can, I pull the curtains shut with a wave of my wand. Unfortunately, the action comes with the horrible screeching sound of metal grinding against metal, which startles awake not only the messy-haired kid wrapped in my arms, but also the redhead curled up around a pillow with his back to the wall in the opposite bed. Blue eyes blink open and the first thing in their line of vision is, naturally, my face. The gangly boy scrambles back, smacking his head against the bedpost, his elbow against the wall, and in an amazing display of acrobatics, his knee against his chin. 

"Blimey, mate, what the-," he shouts. 

"Ron, calm down. It's just Sirius," Harry interrupts placatingly, sitting up.

"Just Sirius...just Sirius, he says," Ron mutters under his breath, rubbing his jaw with one hand, his knee with the other and rather obviously suppressing a yawn at the same time. The resulting picture is comical beyond belief and if Harry's shaking shoulders are anything to go by, I'm not the only one to think so. "Stop laughing, you git!" the redhead grumbles, smiling despite himself, hurling his pillow at Harry, who dodges, and it ends up smacking me in the shoulder. I grab the thing and lazily whack Harry over the head with it.

"Oi, what was that for?" he rounds on me, his best kicked-puppy expression plastered on his face.

"Do I need a reason?" I grin at him cheekily, having made no move to get up.

"I'll fold you in the tent and throw you out the window again," he threatens, walking over to his trunk.

"What makes you think I'd let you?" I challenge and prop my head with my hand so that I could follow what he's doing, just in case. 

"You let him fold you in a tent and throw you out the window?" Ron butts in incredulously, stopping dead on his way to the wardrobe.

"It was an experiment," Harry explains, pulling on a clean white T-shirt.

"And my idea," I add, trying to save some face.

"Not the throwing-out-the-window part, though," Harry comments absent-mindedly, picking out socks.

"You two are even barmier than he claims you are, aren't you?" the redhead observes with a touch of apprehension, hanging a blindingly orange towel around his neck.

"Probably," Harry and I say in unison, look at each other, share a grin, and he proceeds to ask, like he always does: "Duel or breakfast?"

"Breakfast," I decide and turn back to Ron: "Aren't you used to it, with this one as your best mate?" finally getting up, I cock my head in Harry's direction.

"That's what I always think. That I'm used to it," the boy mutters and I pat him on the shoulder in sympathy as I pass him by on my way to the door, because I can totally relate.

* * *

Having revived him for the fifth time, I figure I've gotten my fix for the day and sit down on just about the only tree stump we haven't yet obliterated in a hundred foot radius. 

"So what was yesterday all about?" I ask, hoping that we've blown off enough steam for Harry to be able to talk about this while keeping his cool - he has a special kind of 'angry' reserved for the Headmaster.

To my relief, he sounds slightly out of breath, a bit dazed and profoundly relaxed when he answers: "My best guess is it was a lesson in the practical application of 'always have a contingency plan for the contingency plan', 'treat wording of promises as if they were Goblin business contracts', 'beware of equivocation', or some combination of those. But who knows what's going through that wise old head of his half the time."

"Why is it such a big deal, anyway? It's not like anyone got hurt or called the Aurors," I say, studying his face. It's at moments like these, when I let him lecture me on stuff I could easily work out for myself, but don't, that he most often forgets all about filters and agendas, and speaks openly, without any specific goal in mind. 

Harry meets my gaze and raises an eyebrow. "Yes, he told them enough so that they wouldn't put us in serious danger. And I'n sure Bill is going to be eager to confirm our story once he actually arrives." He closes his eyes and continues quietly: "That doesn't mean they'll be nice to you before the truth sinks in." 

"I don't mind," I shrug, knowing perfectly well that I'm not fooling anybody. "It's always taken people some time to realize that I'm awesome and utterly irresistible - but they get there, in the end," I grin at him.

The smile he gives me in response is very fond. His expression turns thoughtful after a while, making me wake up to the fact that I've been staring. I look up and my eyes land on a pair of dog rose bushes which somehow, miraculously avoided destruction. They seem strangely out of place on the otherwise thoroughly wrecked piece of land. I wonder what the hell I'm doing.

Harry catches my attention again by clearing his throat. He's still lying on the forest floor, gazing at the sky, hands folded behind his head, giving no outward sign of discomfort, yet for some reason I get the impression that he'd rather eat a slug than have the conversation he's about to start.

"Ron, he's...well..." he trails off and runs a hand through his hair in frustration before trying again: "We'll sleep in your bed from now on, alright?" 

I'm speechless for a few critical moments. Because to this day, we haven't opened the can of worms that is the toxic part of my feelings for him - he might not fully understand, though I'm certain he is at the very least aware of the potential. Our sleeping arrangements, even if not a direct hit, are one of those topics that get too close for comfort.

I remember it so clearly, the moment I looked at this boy from across the street and knew without a doubt that my life would be meaningless without him. I loved him then, and it seemed like the easiest thing in the world at the time. Now, falling for my best friend's son, who is not only twenty years my junior, but also a minor, is complicated enough for me to rather avoid thinking about it altogether.

In a fucked up, roundabout way, I could even claim it's his own fault. Harry spent the last month striving to become everything I needed while taking cue directly from my surface thoughts - as his thirteen-year-old mind interpreted them. If he were an adult, I would have told him he should have seen this coming. As it is, I can only blame myself. 

Harry apparently takes my silence for the encouragement to elaborate it certainly is not.

"He's promised to help you - with the trial and his family and whatever else you might need. He'll cover for us, even though he'll probably look at me weird for the rest of my life, but that's where he drew the line. We really screwed up this morning-"

"My bed. Got it," I interrupt before he can demand that I apologize to the boy - I might prefer washing Snape's hair to-

Harry snorts at the mental image, and suddenly all my embarrassment melts into a wave of indignation so strong I have to take a deep breath before speaking to keep my voice level.

"Will you ever stop? I know you can."

He averts his eyes, cheeks tinged pink. Until now, I couldn't be sure, though I have suspected for a while.

"I could probably bullshit us both into believing it's vitally important that I monitor... But whatever, I won't. Let's make a deal: I'll stop if you spend at least one hour a day interacting with the 'bloody redheads'," he proposes, confidence incarnate again, no trace of shame in sight. 

"And unless it's an emergency, you'll keep out of everyone else's mind?" I verify. Only Harry could turn such a clear-cut, black and white matter into a bargain - and only I could be fool enough to go along with it. 

"I will."

"Deal."

* * *

"Quit judging everybody," Harry hisses at me over the dinner table, kicking me none too gently in the shin. 

"Hey, in what world does this qualify as an emergency?" I exclaim in half mock, half real outrage, rubbing the painful spot with my toes.

Harry, who has chosen that particular moment to stuff his mouth full of kidney pie, makes a vague circular motion with his knife in the direction of my head. 

"Why, that explains everything," I nod sagely.

He swallows with some effort, and elaborates: "It's written all over your face."

I huff and busy myself with pushing carrots around my plate.

"What's your problem?" he asks in the offhand manner of one firm in their belief that every question they pose, no matter how rude, stupid, or invasive, shall be answered. I do my utmost to disabuse Harry of this foolish notion by way of ignoring his existence.

"If you want me to keep my word, you'll have to tell me." The kid is annoyingly persistent as always.

"I don't have to tell you anything. There's this thing called privacy, you might have heard of it," I return a little snidely.

"You mean the thing that hightails it out of the room whenever family sets foot inside?" Oh, he sure knows how to slam the door on a course of an argument. 

'How would you know?' gets shot down on grounds of potentially producing more wanking material than I could safely deal with, so I sigh and give in, since I'm not stupid enough to expect him to let me off the hook anytime soon. I ponder why I've come to resent these people so quickly. They are not Harry - that's reason enough for me. Harry cares about them. They are happy, healthy, and it's their fault that I don't have Harry all to myself anymore. Patrick always says that it's good practice, trying to put my feelings into words, but why does it have to be this bloody embarrassing?

The confession of jealousy and envy and love and selfishness doesn't make it past my lips, as I notice the sudden lull in the previously lively conversation around us. They listen and they watch; they won't let me speak to him, they won't let me touch him... A spark of anger lights up the pool of shame in my gut and by the time I meet the familiar green orbs across the now miles wide dinner table, an inferno is raging through my chest. 

And Harry sits there, sipping his pumpkin juice, calm as can be, as if he didn't know... Oh. The fact that he's not trying to make me feel better, ignorant of my inner turmoil like the rest of the world, hurts more than I thought possible. For one horrible moment, I assume he's stopped caring, but soon enough I realize that's far from true. He asked what was wrong, and that's all he could do, all he should do, because Harry is not responsible for dealing with my emotions; I am. 

Except I have no idea how to make myself anything other than miserable. I cast my mind back to the last time I felt this crappy and try to recall Harry's solution. Just the memory brings a smile to my face.

"Let's go steal Dudley's stereo," I suggest hopefully, for once utterly indifferent to who might overhear.

Harry beams at me in a way that reminds me strangely of another Potter, watching over a certain toddler's first tentative steps. Before my brain can begin drawing any crazy conclusions, I decide that I realy, really don't want to know.

* * *

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait and short chappie. Just letting you know this story and I are both still alive. Hope you enjoy :)

"...I'm ba-a-a-a-ack, ba-a-a-ack! I'm back in black, I'm back in black," I sing at the top of my lungs - though calling my recitation at high volume singing might be a tad generous.

Over the guitar solo, I can hear Molly's complaints from downstairs; about all teenagers being the same, nipping things in the bud, bad examples, and the trials of parenthood. She's been at it for the last hour or so, her monologue vaguely reminding me of Kreacher's endless grumbling, just carefully edited for children's ears. Now, she's swearing to Merlin that nine is her limit, for real, this time, and yes, that would be Harry, laughing his arse off. 

Wait, Harry?

I jump from the bed, transform, manage to successfully take stock of all my legs soon enough not to snap my neck on my way down the stairs, lose traction for a bit when turning one corner, decelerate slightly to negotiate the next turn with more grace, barely avoid bowling over a twin, take a good, long sniff, three steps, transform, and wrap my arms around the surprised cinnamon biscuits, old lady, earth, and mint shampoo I've missed so much I can't believe it's been only eight hours.

"Hey," he greets me, rubbing my back soothingly, as if he understands that hours can sometimes feel like ages. What do I know? Maybe he does.

I hold him a little tighter and ask: "We good?"

He nods into my shoulder, making no attempt to draw back. "We're great," he says with an audible smile. 

I bury my nose into his hair and end up snorting as the background noise filters into focus. I'm on the highway to hell, indeed.

There's a significant clearing of a throat from behind me, so, reluctantly, I let Harry go. Molly Weasley is giving me her most disapproving look yet - and that is saying something - while Harry takes a seat at the kitchen table, unperturbed, as if the unspoken reprimand didn't concern him at all. I follow his example, trying to ignore the glare boring into my back as best as I can.

As Molly returns to her cooking, muttering under her breath, Harry drops the unflappable mask, and grins.

"We've got Longbottom, McLaggen, Cresswell, Greengrass, Diggory, Bones and MacMillan. Edgecombe was a lost cause from the start. At least I gave up soon enough not to have to Obliviate her."

"Edgecombe doesn't have a vote, anyway," I can't stop the smile that spreads over my face at the reminder that this is actually happening. I'm getting a trial.

Harry shakes his head, a tinge of frustration creeping into his voice as he explains: "Neither does Cresswell, but the more of the Fudge administration we get compromised, the better. We want him to get to a point where he perceives admitting a fault on his predecessor's part as infinitely less damaging than revealing that so many of his own people withheld information, aided, or even harbored a criminal. It's impossible to guarantee any votes in advance, Sirius. Not with the number of unpredictable morons in the mix, and the level of corruption. That's why we've been involving the kids, and not simply negotiating or bribing our way through."

"'Cause we don't trust the adults not to use the information before the time is right?" I guess, since I can't wrap my head around how the support of a bunch of teenagers could possibly help my case.

"That too, though mostly we don't trust them not to turn on us. They would have no qualms about accusing each other of conspiracy. They would betray me or Dumbledore in the blink of an eye. But with their own children in the know? Their nieces? Nephews? Cousins? Grandchildren? They'll think twice before screwing us over-"

"Harry! Language!" Molly turns on him, thrusting a long, wet, floppy leek in his direction. One has to love a mother's selective hearing.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Weasley," Harry says, looking so perfectly contrite I don't buy it for a second. "Anything we can help you with?" he offers as if he's only just noticed her perpetual bustling, and I can't quite decide whether to find the fact that I am summarily included in his plans, regardless of my opinion, irritating, or heartwarming.

Molly's expression softens immediately.

"Sirius promised to change all the bed sheets. Maybe you could help him finish up?" she suggests, her face stuck halfway between the smile she wants to give Harry, and the scowl that's all for me, no doubt.

"Of course. We'll be upstairs if you need us, then," he waves goodbye, and is already climbing up the stairs by the time I make it out of the kitchen.

"Thank you, dear," Molly calls after him, and begins to hum along with the Highway's refrain.

Why do I even bother?

* * *

"What did you think was going to happen?" I ask incredulously, catching the pillow Harry banished into a pristine white pillowcase.

"I don't know!" he exclaims, nearly sending a duvet through the window in his agitation. "Maybe I expected them to possess a snit of compassion and some self-control?"

"They spent the past decade believing I'd helped murder their friends," I reason. Seeing Harry so outraged on my behalf, something new, warm and solid settles in the pit of my stomach. Gratitude sounds wrong, satisfaction far too fleeting. Contentment, perhaps. "Besides, considering how spectacularly this whole thing could blow up in their faces, it's no wonder there's some resentment."

"No matter how reluctantly, as head of a department, Mr Weasley is a part of this country's government. Fixing the Ministry's fuck-ups at personal risk comes with the territory. You, as the injured party, are the last person who should be blamed for any unwelcome aspects of this situation."

"Oh, you're going to be insufferable," I sigh, painstakingly guiding a horribly orange bed linen to wrap itself around the duvet hovering in front of me. At Harry's raised eyebrow, I elaborate: "You've spent the whole day spewing this bullshit, haven't you?"

"Yup," he confirms with a grin, unrepentant. "Eight hours of gruelling practice, and you'd fancy winning arguments against me?" he scoffs as if the mere idea were ludicrous. 

"Remember Belfast? And you were still living in my head half the time back then-"

"No no no no no. We are so not doing this!" he waves his wand back and forth between the two of us, making the last sheet struggle to follow its motions. "Rubbing my nose in how much better than me he is, that's Dumbledore's job. You're supposed to..." he trails off.

"I'm supposed to what? Feed your ego twenty-four seven?"

"You're supposed to get me," he mumbles so quietly I barely catch it.

I levitate the last pillow on top of the heap in the corner and turn to address this latest transgression against my budding pride. He fidgets with his sleeve, refusing to meet my gaze, and the moment becomes one of those rare reminders that despite all the evidence to the contrary, he's still a kid.

"I do, believe me. You've had one giant power trip of a day, and it's a long way back to 'just Harry. I'd know, I've been there. And trust me, you don't want to end up with no one willing to tell you you're being a git."

His eyes shutter and for a few terrifying seconds, I fear I overestimated his level of self-awareness. Then, he joins his hands behind his back, and I realize it hasn't been Albus' gesture for a while, but rather Harry's tell for taking a gamble. 

"Mr Padfoot, would you be a git with me today?"

* * *

 "Hi guys, have you seen Ron?" Harry barges into the twin's room without so much as a knock and bounces on one of their unidentifiable mess-covered beds. "And what's up with Fred's tongue?" he adds as an afterthought in that same cheerful tone.

I stop in the doorway to stare at the spectacle and detachedly observe that yes, my tolerance for the blatantly bizarre has suffered since my marauding days. There's a waist-high, rainbow-coloured mountain taking up one corner, a twin chopping pieces off of it with a dangerous-looking cleaver, and presumably Fred, sitting on the floor, holding what seems like a fat, pink, slimey snake in his hands.

"Ronniekins's on ghoul-cleaning duty. Something about Ginny's underthings. Close the door, would you, mate?" George addresses the last to me, and something deep in my psyche unclenches at being referred to so casually.

I might just end up enjoying myself here. Molly, not so much.


End file.
